A Sergeant No More
by G Stormcrow
Summary: On planet Hera, the Brown Coats sweated men and metal to defend Serenity Valley, its last bastion against the surge of the Alliance. Men of all qualities died for reasons they held close to their hearts, while others lived on with a void they would never truly fill. Come see how the battle that decided the outcome of the Civil War played out, and the heroes that were made.
1. Chapter 1

**A Sergeant No More**

A/N: _Italics are used to denote thoughts when appropriate. The dates used in the codex are from the firefly wikia database._

__I do not own Firefly or any materials related to the franchise.

* * *

_Western Flank, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera_

A single blade of grass wavered in the light breeze, bravely withstanding the assault of brown grit that covered much of the landscape. All around it, small craters and dark smudges pockmarked the once fertile and loose soil. Now, track marks and footprints covered the land, alongside the scattered piles of ejected bullet shells and blackened shrapnel. There were bodies, hundreds of them, and an even greater number of body parts, unclaimed and rotting in the warm Hera sun.

Down from the heavens a shadow was cast upon the blade of grass, stealing from it the vital warmth of the sun, and buffeting it with the force of a tempest. The grass endured, its roots dug deep within the earth of Hera, clinging with frantic desperation to ride out this storm. There was a shake, a tremor that loosened nearby soil and sent a storm of debris into the air. The lonely blade, its back bent low, endured.

There was a second tremor, weaker by magnitudes, but closer by several inches. There was a third, a fourth, a fifth, and then an overlapping avalanche of quakes that came rumbling towards the collapsed grass. A solid object landed a mere inch to the left of the plant, sending a shockwave that knocked over the recovering blade, and then an earthquake was upon it, threatening to shake the earth out from underneath its roots.

The avalanche passed, leaving the grass battered and crushed, its weak form flittering at the whim of the wind that continued to descend upon it. There was a sharp whine, followed by loud clanking and croaking before a sudden displacement of air, and the dark shadow became all-encompassing. There was a soft crunch, not that anyone would have heard, and the spine of the grass was finally broken. It had become just another casualty of war, another dead body on a battlefield that was littered with nameless John and Jane Doe's.

The hatch of the new Alliance L108 Talos heavy assault tank opened, and a man bearing a chestful of shining decorations appeared from within the heavily armored machine of war. Sitting square over his heart, a small silver leaf shined brighter than all the surrounding medals, its significance clear to anyone in the battalion: the man was a Lieutenant Colonel for the United Alliance Forces, and he was clearly someone who was also on the fast track to Brigadier General and beyond. He looked about him, and there was a sharp snap to attention.

"A-Ten-Shun!" A captain cried out.

One thousand iron-plated boots smashed into the ground, followed by one thousand softer thumps as rifle butts contributed to the effort to flatten the dusty ground.

"At ease, soldier." The decorated Lt. Colonel called out, his voice carrying over the loud humming of the departing transport aircrafts. "We are here to fight a war, not parade around. The UAF commanded us to come to this frontline battlefield because of our expertise, and that is exactly what we will show those brown coats. Other battalions have failed to show the Independents our righteous fury, but not us! Not the 42nd mechanized battalion that is so well known for our superior training and conditioning! Form up, soldiers, and let us knock the teeth out of those gorram reb—"

His chest caved inward, blood and gore splashing over the pristine sheen of the tank armor. His body fell forward, no movement is discernable.

A second shot sounded, the captain that had called the troops to attention crumpled to the ground, half of his head was missing.

Pandemonium ensued.

* * *

_Western Flank, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera_

Corporal Zoe Alleyne stared down the scope of her sniper rifle, her body lying prone on a cliff overlooking the Alliance airdrop landing zone. The stock of her rifle pressed tightly against her right shoulder, and her left index finger rested just below the trigger. The newly disgorged troops were forming up, standing directly over the site of the previous artillery barrage.

_If only we still had artillery support_, a quick thought passed through Alleyne's mind, _this battle would be over before it even began_.

Next to her, Private First Class Jacob Weston looked down his spotting scope, scanning over the large sea of bodies for a high priority target. The PFC was young, in his early 20s, but he had already accumulated his fair share of battle experiences and scars. Almost mechanically, he listed a string of weather conditions even as his right hand snaked down to grab his radio to report in the exact location of the Alliance LZ and the force composition to the west front HQ.

Corporal Alleyne shifted slightly, and looked away from the scope to let her eyes rest for a brief moment. She checked her ammo, _still full_, and the round already in the chamber, _resting ready_, and refocused her eyes on the scope. A loud captain cried out, and the soldiers were ordered into parade rest.

"The big dog is going to show his face soon." Weston commented in his slight British accent. Some of the outer rim colonies were founded by descendents from the nation of Great Britain, and all the females of the Bravo Company 3rd Battalion were infatuated with Weston's 'silky voice.' Alleyne excluded, of course.

"What did the HQ say about a possible artillery barrage?" She knew the answer, but asked anyways. One never knew what miracles Sergeant Reynolds could pull out of his helmet at any given time.

"No can do. HQ said we are alone out here. SB has tasked all their long range assets to digging a deeper valley to the north. Says they got nothing to spare for us." SB stood for Serenity Base, an army depot/air field/surface-to-orbit missile launching site all stuffed on top of a nearby mountain range. Next to it, half buried into the side of a mountain, was the Liberty Space Center, a glorified large slab of concrete with the equipment and scaffolding necessary to launch spacecraft.

"A pity, just keep your eyes open. Folks back at HQ are counting on us to sow some chaos."

"Roger tha—contact, middle of the tank formation, hatch is opening." Alleyne pushed the butt of her rifle even more tightly against her shoulder, her arm already shifting the crosshair to hover over the opening hatch.

"Found it." A quick, concise reply from the Corporal, practiced and perfected over hundreds of sniping operations.

"Distance, 500 meters. Wind, 5 knots south-west. You got a clear shot."

"Roger that." Alleyne continued to stare down her scope until a figure rose from within the new tank. Weston let out a small cheer, and Alleyne allowed herself a small smile as she took in a deep breath in preparation for the shot.

_A gorram Lieutanent Colonel, let's see you wear your stars after this._ Keeping the crosshair of her rifle over the right shoulder of the enemy officer to adjust for the wind, Alleyne waited, holding her breath as her heart finished its pumping cycle, and then she pulled the trigger.

Her M21 sniper rifle kicked back, and her shoulder absorbed the recoil fluidly as her hands forcefully brought the barrel of the rifle back down. The spent cartridge went flying past her, and a fresh bullet was already in the chamber. _9 bullets left._

"Clean kill. 10 meters to the south, officer with the waving arm, holding no weapons." Weston reported, both of his hands clutching the spotting scope, his eyes shifting from enemy to enemy while his brain automatically assigned a priority level to each spotted foe.

Her finger hovering above the trigger, her arm moving the rifle slightly, and Alleyne squeezed off another round. "Got it."

"Headshot, nice kill." Weston moved to replace his spotting scope back into his backpack, and took up his M16 assault rifle as random returning fire started to sound from the Alliance battalion. "There is another cliff edge further up, more cover."

Corporal Alleyne crawled back from the cliff edge, and stood up from her prone position. "No, let's head back to HQ. We did our job. They are not moving out anytime soon, and we are not going to get any other officers if we stick around."

Weston nodded, and the pair moved off away from the cliff edge, heading towards the line of trenches that lay five klicks to the west of the Alliance LZ.

* * *

_Academy Codex, Entry 1, the Exodus_

It was 2097, and Earth was dead. The ecosystem that had once saw to the creation and continuation of life had become hopelessly polluted and deathly toxic to all organic life. Dark thunder clouds hung low in the sky, and the sharp jolts of lightning briefly accented the devastated landscape. Some of the buildings still stood, those that were constructed from steel and concrete, but their residents had long ago fled to safer havens.

The governments of Earth had long ago been dissolved, their authority and resources taken by the Global Exodus Alliance in a massive mobilization effort to evacuate what remained of the human population and culture to the closest hospitable star system. There were riots when grocery stores closed, gas stations shut down, and public water supplies shunted off in a conservation effort that undoubtedly crossed the line into crimes against humanity, but those rioters didn't have military-grade weapons, and crossing 40 light years was going to require an immense cache of supplies.

Under the effect of global martial law, the Alliance maintained a façade of peace while they further bled the Earth dry of natural resources. The toxicity of the oceans rose sharply, and the atmosphere was formally declared as unsuited for life. Still the Alliance persevered, for despite their heavy handed approaches, they were making significant progress, and a percentage of humanity will live to see the sun rise again, albeit on a different planet, facing a different sun.

In hundreds of isolated locations around the world, colossal arks stood stalwart against the onslaught of an angry nature. Hordes of survivors shuffled on the ground, some waiting to embark the ship, others were still hurrying to load supplies and resources salvaged from the civilizations that had so disgracefully collapsed. One such ark, designated _Artemis_, was smaller than the rest of the generation ships built. Filled beyond safety capacity with passengers and supplies, its trace compression block engines were already warmed up for ascent when its gates to salvation finally sealed.

With a blinding flash and a monstrous roar, _Artemis_ spewed white plasma onto its landing pad, instantly vaporizing the debris and flash heating any living organism within a three kilometer radius. This sterility was serene as compared to the raging storm that ravaged the surface of the planet, but it did not last. Even before _Artemis_ enter low orbit, nature reclaimed what was taken from it. Wild typhoon raged, and the ashes of those left behind were scattered to the four winds.

In the days to come, hundreds more joined _Artemis_ in orbit around the Moon, waiting for the flagship Ark, _Prometheus_, to depart from Earth. Born from the desperations of a selfish people and built from the polluted life blood of a mother planet so deplorably scorned, this veritable fleet of Arks also represented the apex of human ingenuity and the untold strength of a will to survive. When the signal from _Prometheus _reached the Arks, the fleet activated their engines and blasted compressed plasma as each Ark accelerated to a fraction of the speed of light. No one looked back, if only because there were no windows, only the cold sterile walls of their Ark.

* * *

Author's Note: Hello everyone! I hope you have enjoyed this rather short introduction to what I hope will be a unique and fulfilling retelling of the famed Battle for Serenity Valley. I will be using the Academy Codex to tell side stories, which will eventually explain certain characters/technology/political structures of the Verse.

As this is the first story that I am writing, definitely do offer criticisms so I can improve! I have read millions of words of fanfiction for years by now, but reading is not writing, and I know I am definitely pruned to novice mistakes.

The next few chapters have been written, but I do want time to edit/revise/change them, so no promises on an update timeline, but know that they have been written, so what I hope to be the most time consuming part has been completed.

Chris


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thank you to femmefan1946 and schur655 for your reviews! And to those of you following this story, I hope you like this chapter! This chapter introduces more vital characters, plus more expansion on the Exodus to showcase the birth of my version of "two by two, hands of blue."_

_Also, I do not own Firefly._

* * *

_Southern Frontline Head Quarters, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera_

Rows of tents stood erect in a sea of bodies. A screech, foul retorts, and even louder honks heralded the arrival of an army jeep cleaving a path through the swarms of idle soldiers. A lieutenant stepped out of a nearby tent, his face red as he screamed after the hazardous driver, to little avail since the vehicle had already disappearing beyond the neighboring row of tents.

The angry lieutenant stepped back into his tent, where a corporal handed him a phone that was connected to the defenders of the Western Flank. The equipment was antiquated, considering that the Alliance was already using long range "waving" communication that could wirelessly link individuals from different planets, but the Independents could neither afford nor obtain this coveted piece of tech. What few interplanetary communication devices General Levitt had managed to acquire during his raid into the Core Planets were distributed amongst the space fleets. The ground troops were stuck using World War II era communication equipment.

The lieutenant barked angrily into the mouth piece, and the brave soul on the other end appeared to be giving as good as he got, since the lieutenant's face grew increasingly purple. With almost a feral snarl, the lieutenant slammed the phone down, and the corporal stepped forward, pen and paper at the ready. Sound came out of the lieutenant's mouth, and words appeared on the reused piece of equipment requisition memo. The corporal looked extremely uncomfortable under the glaring scrutiny of the dictating lieutenant.

A private came running by the tent, carrying a stack of paper under his arm. The corporal gave the private the transcript, adding specific instructions to hand the transcript over to Colonel Donovan personally. The private nodded, his mind running a mile a minute as he mentally juggled dozens of other specific instructions given by the dozens of other NCOs.

The transcript eventually made its way over to Colonel Donovan's tent, and was given to a lieutenant who approached the busy commanding officer leading the defense of Serenity Valley against the Alliance assault. The man stood at a large table, a large topographical map spread out over the surface with numerous toy markers placed at various locations. Various officers milled around the table, passing memos and discussing reports, even as the Colonel stared intensely at the large enemy force, represented as red army men on the map, gathered at their footsteps.

"Colonel." The transcript bearing lieutenant spoke to Colonel Donovan. "The western flank is reporting an incoming enemy armored battalion, and is requesting reinforcements."

A corporal, hearing the report, quietly placed a small grey tank at the mouth of the valley exiting to the west.

The Colonel shifted his glaze over to the two green army men at the western front, now placed squarely in front of the grey tank turret.

"What is the largest intact unit we got not on the frontlines?" The Colonel raised his voice over the background noise, and the response was the sound of paper shuffling.

"I got a platoon of 30, rifle team survivors from Fort Tranquility." A corporal called out.

"I got a squad of six, fire support with mortar from Central Command." Another sergeant reported.

Several more voices spoke out, naming relevant anti-armor units that had reported in.

Colonel Donovan silently cursed. All the units being listed were at half strength if not worse, and they were all stragglers and survivors that had somehow managed to make their way to Serenity Valley, after their respectively bases and posts were leveled and obliterated by a liberal use of Alliance explosives. The 3rd Battalion of the 142nd Planetary Defense Forces left to defend Serenity Valley was only supposed to number around a thousand, but now the number was creeping up to almost ten thousand. Nine thousand crushed souls had sought refuge at Serenity Valley, the last line of defense to the south of Serenity Base to still stand against the unstoppable march of the Alliance forces.

They were in a bad position, and every officer in that tent knew it. The extra nine thousand troops should technically make Serenity Valley impervious to assault, especially with the orbital defense missiles at Serenity Base keeping the Alliance cruisers and capital ships from coming into low orbital and glassing the entire valley. However, the nine thousand troops were in actuality a logistically nightmare for the commanders of 3rd Battalion; there was little to no preexisting command structures left in the troops that found their way to Serenity Valley. As such, every available staff member was put on the task of cannibalizing the surviving squads and reconstituting them as units of adequate strength.

Given a few months, the capable commanders of 3rd Battalion would have been able to reconstitute the survivors into nine new battalions, fully officered through a liberal round of promotions. Given only a few days, however, not even a single fully strengthened platoon had been completed, and with the Alliance forces constantly probing Serenity Valley's defenses, a few days were all they had to form up the stragglers and make them into a cohesive fighting unit.

That said, there can be no better forge for cohesive fighting units than having your back against the wall and facing a tyrant that goes by the name of Alliance.

Looking over at the circle of logistics officers reading squad dossiers, Colonel Donovan began issuing commands.

"Lieutenant Pearson, reconstitute an anti-armor platoon and send them to Western Flank in 30." Lt. Pearson nodded, fingers already flying through a particularly high stack of papers.

"Lieutenant Ellis, I need that progress report from the 33rd Armored." Leaving the circle, Lt. Ellis made a beeline for the communications tent.

"Corporal Hunter, get a sitrep from Frontline. Tell them the Alliance is moving on West, and warn them to expect contacts." A quick salute and the soldier ran in the same direction as Lt. Ellis.

"Sergeant Harford, contact FieldOps and ask them how in the gorram hell they managed to miss an entire Armored Division landing right under their noses, and tell them I need to know if the Alliance is going to surprise us elsewhere." There was a grin from Harford, and then man stepped to a high security communication booth in the tent.

"And Sergeant Bell, get a line to Serenity Base, I need to update them on the situation." The female Sergeant responded by handing the Colonel an ear piece and a clip-on microphone, while her other hand flew over the dials that would link Frontline HQ to Serenity Base.

The ambient noise level in the tent rose back up, and Colonel Donovan mentally prepared himself for the debriefing with his military superiors at Serenity Base.

* * *

_Beachhead Command Base, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera_

The Aether Short Range Transporter touched down on a square block of black tarmac, blasting the incoming group of refuel staff and staff officers with a wave of turbulence that threatened to send hats flying. With an audible hiss, a door slid open, and a young man stepped out into the sun. Dressed in a two piece white suit, the man reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of black sunglasses. All the while, his head was tilted skyward, his body language showing no signs of being aware of the group of four officers that were staring and studying him.

The lead officer stepped forward, one hand taking off his cap and the other rising into a salute, and the rest of the officers followed suit. The young man took no notice, and instead appeared to be avidly avoiding eye contact with the waiting officers. The lead officer cleared his throat once, then twice, and finally the man responded by taking steps in their direction, his shaded eyes still pointed skyward.

Taking the movement to be an informal at ease order, the lead officer relaxed, and gestured for two of his subordinates to search the transporter for any luggage that required unloading. From his other two fellow officers he took an oddly white briefcase and a manila envelope stamped with a bright red 'CONFIDENTIAL." The young man stopped in front of him, and the lead officer took the liberty to start his welcome speech.

"Welcome, Brigadier General Weir! I hope re-entry was not too turbulent for you—"

"Are those what I have requested?" Brig. General Weir pointed to the white briefcase.

"Yes, general. All of our most recent field reports, and intel on enemy strength, reinforcements, and officers are all in this briefcase. Would you like for me—" The lead officer tried to smile, but the twitching of the corner of his mouth was making his attempt very sloppy.

"I'll take it." Reaching out and grabbing the briefcase, Weir turned and walked towards a newly erected white administrative facility in a sea of camouflage colored buildings. The building was a single-floored, small rectangular shaped block that had more than a few antennas and satellite dishes sticking out on the roof.

The lead officer stood for a few seconds, his hand clenching and unclenching as if searching for the missing briefcase handle. Finally realizing he still possessed the manila envelope, the officer ran after Weir, stuttering his sentence in an undignified tone.

"Wait! General! Your Ident. Codes!"

* * *

_Alliance Military Vessel Venus, Cruiser-class, high orbit around Planet Hera _

A large computer screen flashed, drawing the attention of the two scientists that occupied the room. The room was small, but not cramped, and the walls were lined with monitors and screens that displayed data received from hundreds of miles away. One of the scientists with headphones on mouthed 'busy' to his partner, who nodded and tapped a few keys that caused the computer screen to rotate and face him.

Green words appeared onscreen, and were quickly replaced by the face of a middle age man. His hair was covered by a military cap, and his chest bore a circle of stars. Upon seeing the scientist, the General spoke.

"I have just received report that Subject SRP-72 as reached the forward base attacking Serenity Valley. How is his condition? Is he functional?"

The scientist shifted his glasses. "His vitals are optimal, and his brainwaves are showing no anomalies. He seems to be functioning quite well on his own down there."

"On his own?" The General frowned. "You sent him down there on his own? What if he goes berserk?"

"Well, SRP-72 is our most stable subject, and his powers are strictly cognitive. Even if he goes berserk, he will not be able to harm the military operation down there." There was a slight muscle twitch at the corner of his mouth, a flash of a smirk on the scientist's face. "And he insisted that he be allowed to go on his own, said he saw that he would be able to see more clearly without us hovering in the background."

"And you listened to him? I didn't know you took suggestions from your subjects."

"Given the nature of SRP-72's ability and his past records, we were not taking suggestions from him as much as using his ability to help us make the best choice." The scientist tapped a few keys, instantly sending a file over the wave. "And we detected the tell-tale activities in the neocortex. It was the right decision to make."

The General tapped the screen, and took a moment to study the file before making a waving motion at the screen. His eyes focused in on the scientist again. "Just keep a close eye on him. SRP-72 is the star of our program, and I expect him to return in prime condition."

The scientist gave a nod of acknowledgment. "Of course, General."

* * *

_Academy Codex, Entry 2, the Artemis_

Though the Exodus was oversaw by the Global Exodus Alliance, the constructions of each individual Ark was managed by a local project lead due to the sheer size of the spacecraft. Each Ark consumed the equivalent of a whole developed city's worth of raw material to complete, as the designers completely forsook the popular manufacturing model of "build to break," and took pains to ensure reasonable perfection in the parts used to build the Arks. This resulted in the rush to construct new factories capable of the higher heat, higher pressure, and onsite stress testing manufacturing model mandated by the Global Exodus Alliance.

It was here that the project leads could customize the designs of the Ark, and the GEA made no complains as long as the finished Ark had the necessary capacity to evacuate a set quota of human survivors. Between the civilian riots and terrorist rebellions, the GEA leadership had its hands full keeping what was left of humanity from imploding. As a result, very little attention was paid to just how many scientific laboratories or extra storage rooms the project leads were installing into their Ark.

The result was a diversified fleet of Arks. Most project leads were civil leaders, and therefore were content to pour uninterrupted funding and resources into building and supplying those factories that built parts for cryogenic sleep pods, general maintenance robots, and electronic hardware. These Arks became towering mazes of cryo pods with redundant electronic circuitry embedded everywhere to ensure the continued function of these pods.

The military generals had a different goal: military stockpiling. Resources were diverted, as much as they were able, to the manufacturing of weapons, equipments, and vehicles, all of which were packaged to be stored in carefully insulated vacuum storage rooms, to prevent degradation over the long centuries of travel.

The _Artemis_, absolutely unique in its design, was planned to be a research Ark. State of the art research facilities were scattered all over the vessel, with the rest of the space serving as storage rooms for foodstuff as well as research specimens. Due to the complete lack of consideration for installing enough cryo pods and the disproportional allocation of space to research facilities, _Artemis _was inadequately built to safely house the necessary number of passengers.

Before the GEA spaceflight crew was due to arrived to begin the loading process, the _Artemis _engineers hastily added a new outer layer to the Ark, while stuffing a hazardous quantity of cryo pods in the new space. Shoddy manufacturing and installation was the name of the game, and if not for some very excellent forgeries, _Artemis _would not have passed inspections. When _Artemis_ lifted off into space, a full half of its population of humans was housed in cryo pods shielded by an outer layer that was insufficiently thick so as to block the gamma radiation from the Sun.

* * *

Author's Note: So yea, less action and more exposition in this chapter, and the implications of that small segment of science talk is ignorable, as I will be revealing it in two chapters, but feel free to make your guesses. I'll let you know how close you got. Note that I have decided to alter a portion of the next chapter, to replace a few cookie-cutter characters with a better one, so no promises again on the release date. I want to make sure my replacement character fits well into what I have written so far, and what I have planned for the finale.

And for these Academy Codex entries, I have completed five, and got a few more planned to cover the new technologies that I will be introducing into the story. I would definitely welcome suggestions on what you guys like to know more about the Verse background.

And before you ask, Mal is appearing…in chapter 4! It's been written already, though I also have planned some minor additions to smooth out the story continuum. While you wait, please read and review! Thanks!

Chris


	3. Chapter 3

_Southern Frontline HQ, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera_

The smell of antiseptic assaulted his nose, and the man hugged his legs closer to fight off a wave of nausea. His eyes, rubbed red in the night past, gazed vacantly at a star-shaped rock resting on the ground of the infirmary tent. Aside from the infrequent nurse that glanced in his direction, no one in the infirmary took any notice of the traumatized young Corporal sitting in the corner. There were far too many other patients to take care of, living, breathing, and screaming.

Next to the quiet Corporal was a deceased patient, his white handsome face unblemished except for the missing ear and the necessary bloodstains resulting from that injury. His lips were grey, their life color having been drained a couple hours past. His chest was bare, the skin slightly singed from the electric discharge that tried to bring him back to life, along with a big red X drawn by an exhausted army surgeon. Clutched in his hand was his dog tag, Sergeant Thomas Treadwell.

Two soldiers trailing a nurse came over, covering the late Sergeant's body and face with a white sheet and began the motion to carry him out for the mass burial. The Corporal shot up, asked for them to wait, to allow him to button up the Sergeant's uniform, trim and official as he had liked it to be in life. The nurse gave the Corporal a sad smile, pressed the late Sergeant's dog tag into his hand, and then directed the two soldiers towards with the exit with the body. The Corporal, running his thumb over the dog tag, slowly slid back down into this corner, a small tear threatening to form in the corner of his eye.

A figure stepped into the tent, her hands holding the tent flap open such that the descending sun brightened the dusky interior. The ray of sun drove into the Corporal's eyes, stunning him momentarily and chasing away the threat of tears. The figure, a female officer, the Corporal noted, was carrying a clipboard.

"Sergeant Treadwell?" The female officer called out. "Sergeant Thomas Treadwell?"

The Corporal felt his heart jump into his throat, a wave of grief and reality spread throughout his body, leaving him weak and powerless. The officer was still holding the tent flap open, and that sunlight still shining into his eyes. The officer called out for a third time, and somewhere inside the Corporal, a little voice that sounded suspiciously like the late Sergeant, bid him to standup, look sharp, and answer the superior officer. It was a voice that the Corporal latched onto, and obeyed.

"Corporal Alexander Treadwell, present, ma'am!" Corporal Treadwell shot up onto his feet once more, his back straight, his head front, and his right hand rising into a sharp salute. Picture perfect, as his brother would have liked it, except for the red eyes and the unkempt hair.

"At ease, Corporal Treadwell, let's see here." The officer consulted her clipboard, before facing the Corporal once more. "Right, you are in Sergeant Treadwell's squad, says here you are a grenadier. Where is your Sergeant, and the rest of your squad?"

"They are all gone, ma'am. I am the last of my squad. PFC Bondon, Davis, and Pym died yesterday, Sgt Treadwell only a couple hours ago." His face, due to a lack of necessary inhalation, was growing faintly red. A small tremor ran up and down his body.

The officer consulted her list once more. "That's all of them, alright. Grab your gear, Corporal, and follow me, we haven't got a whole lot of time to waste."

"Yes ma'am!" Shoulders square, abdominal muscles tight, the Corporal gave another quick salute before bending over to pick up his pack, helmet, bandoleer, and his drum-fed grenade launcher.

"And my name is Lieutenant Pearson, Corporal." The Lieutenant stepped out of the tent, followed immediately by Corporal Treadwell.

* * *

_Beachhead Command Base, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera_

The prefab command center was alight with holographic projection tables and full-brightness LED screens. A small army of flag officers stood or sat at their stations, handling the thousands of logistical and intelligence tasks necessary to fight an entrenched enemy while still landing the necessary equipments. The command center itself was a single large room, with a raised platform in the center, where the commander in chief of the operations at and around Serenity Valley was currently standing.

"So you have met and welcomed our new tactical strategist, Major Baker. I trust he is comfortably accommodated?" General Jarvis Lawrence asked, his eyes still reading the report the nearby Colonel Vincent had handed him moments earlier.

"Yes, General. I have seen to his accommodations, and the Brigadier General was quite pleased!" The Major replied, a false smile plastered on his face. After catching up to General Weir and handing over the confidential Ident. Codes, the Major was once again left on the tarmac without a word.

"That is certainly good to hear." The response from General Lawrence was given halfheartedly; a frown was beginning form on his brow. "Please inform the good general that once he is settled in, I would welcome his opinion on my plan of assault." Apparently finished with the report, General Lawrence handed it off and looked straight at Major Baker. "And I hope you will make that point very clear to General Weir, to come see me."

Major Baker looked slightly apprehensive at the command, but was quick to salute. "Of course, sir. I will make it clear to General Weir of your summons right away."

General Lawrence waved a hand of dismissal, and Major Baker disappeared out of the command center. Colonel Vincent stepped forward to hand another report to the commander in chief, and the planning for the two pronged assault on the Independent southern headquarters resumed.

* * *

_Southern Frontline HQ, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera_

Corporal Treadwell silently followed Lt. Pearson through the encampment, his mind a maelstrom of emotions, mostly negative ones. Out of the infirmary sector, past the massive billet tents, through the impromptu armor pool set up in the area between command and ammunition tents, and then finally out to a small clearing just outside of the established camp boundaries. There, Corporal Treadwell saw about 40 other individuals, sitting or standing around wooden ammunition crates.

"Well, here you are. Get acquainted, ammo up, and I will be back with orders." Lt. Pearson waved her arm in the general direction of the gathered men, before turning and leaving.

Treadwell looked around some more, and looked in on a group of soldiers carrying the same rusty brown colored grenade launcher as his. It was nearly silent; the only noise came from crates being sifted around. Everyone had a somber look; everyone had lost a lot of important people in the past few days.

"Hey, name's Treadwell. Got ammo?" Addressing a fellow Corporal who was sitting on a crate, Treadwell tried to inject some familiarity into his words, to start the conversation without this sense of oppression pressing down on them. It was what his brother had always done, and succeeded in doing.

The other Corporal looked up, gave a wary smile, and pointed to the crates around him. "I'm Johnston. Here we got the best grenades in this gorram sector. Take your pick. HEAT grenades are over there by McLean, disc grenades are under Field, Richardson's got ammo drums, and I'm sitting on the satchel charges." Each of the named individuals waved or nodded in acknowledgement, and Treadwell plastered on his own greetings smile as he made his way around to fill up his pack and bandoleer.

"So, who's in command here?" A glance at the rest of the grenadiers showed that they had no clue. Richardson looked like he was about to comment when there was a small commotion as the soldiers sitting closest to the camp scrambled to come to attention. The rest of the gathered men stood up in curiosity, and in walked a Colonel, followed by two aids and Lt. Pearson.

Treadwell was on his feet in a second, body posed for a salute. Everyone in the clearing did the same, welcoming the Colonel with a sloppy but still somewhat unified salutation. The Colonel stopped at the center of the clearing, bidding the men to come closer. The formless body of men walked into a circle around the Colonel, and Treadwell suddenly found himself near the center of the ring.

"Men, I am Colonel Donovan, commander of the battalion tasked to guard this here valley. I know you all came here for refuge, and I wish I could offer you better accommodations, but the Alliance is not that considerate. They are trying to move an armored battalion through our western flank, and if they succeed, it would make our situation here quite untenable."

The Colonel paced a small circle, meeting eyes with every soldier surrounding him. There were bags under his eyes, but his gaze was sharp. Here was a Brown Coat who had to singlehanded bear the burden of the incoming invasion, and he was still fighting strong. Every soldier felt their back straighten, their chest pump out, as the Colonel swept his eyes over them.

"The boys on the western flank, they got their work cut out for them, but one of our snipers already took out their commanding officer, and a minefield has been laid out to cover the main road leading to Emerald Glen, the abandoned mining town where our boys are billeted at. They got multiple machinegun bunkers with overlapping field of fire setup on nearby high ground, a kill zone for anything that walks in."

Every now and then a soft clanking is heard, the sound of ammunition colliding against each other as bandoleers and backpacks shifted. The men grew more restless, for they knew the command was about to be given. The best they could hope for was to be sent as a reserve unit, to wait at the rear until the frontline is breached, and then move up to reform the line and reinforce the breach. But most likely, they were going to be inserted into the frontline, a battered frontline at that.

"I know you all are tired, but I am asking you all anti-armor specialists to go and lend our boys at the western flank a hand, to knock them back and let us keep our peace for a while longer. I know we would appreciate it, and I know the troops at the western flank would welcome your help. Sergeant Conner Hutchinson, as you are the senior NCO here, will you take command of this platoon?"

Sergeant Hutchinson, a tall man carrying a bazooka over his shoulder, nodded.

"Alright. Lieutenant Pearson here will debrief you more on the situation, and trucks are coming to take you to the western flank. Best of luck, men, and God Bless."Colonel Donovan took off his cap, saluted, and made his way out of the circle. Lt. Pearson stepped in, another clipboard in her hand. Treadwell felt for his brother's dog tag, his heart caught in his throat when an armored battalion was mentioned. It would seem that the nightmare wasn't quite over yet.

* * *

_Academy Codex, Entry 3, Homo ascendus_

The journey to the White Sun system was projected to be a long one, lasting well over a century. Most of the evacuated population was put into a state of cryogenic sleep in the early days of the Exodus. A very small percentage remained awake, performing navigational and maintenance duties. Each Ark also had a dedicated staff of doctors and other such health technicians, monitoring the life signs of the sleeping passengers. These workers were divided into shifts, rotating in and out of cryo sleep.

The predetermined path of travel for the Exodus Fleet was, for the most part, extremely monotonous. The Arks silently drifted in the empty space between star systems, the inertia from their initial acceleration carrying them onward. Due to a conscious decision by the Global Exodus Alliance leadership to travel the shortest possible route to the White Sun system, the Fleet did have to travel through several irradiated regions of space, the residues from stars that had gone supernova long before humanity existed.

For the maintenance staff of _Artemis_, the fourth decade of travel represented the sudden onset of medical emergencies in survivors sleeping in pods installed just under the inadequate outer metal shielding of the Ark. Spikes in vital signs were a daily occurrence, and even the advances in modern medicine could not successfully reverse genetic damage. Those dead were ejected into space, and the journey continued.

By the century mark, the Exodus Fleet was finally nearing the White Sun system, and more auxiliary members of the Exodus were being awoken. On _Artemis_, already famous and promising scientists warmed out of their cryo sleep, and the numerous laboratories saw light for the first time since lift off. The survivor population onboard _Artemis_ stabilized just a decade ago, after passing through the final pocket of radiation. Out of interest, one research group took tissue and blood samples from the remaining survivors that were located under the outer layer.

A vast majority of those survivors were doomed to die of a swift cancer-induced death after thawing, and again the medical staff was powerless to reverse the damage. A small percentage, however, showcased genetic anomalies and no tumors of the malignant nature. The researchers were intrigued, and further experiments were conducted to decode the nature of these genetic anomalies, though progress proved to be impossible without an active, breathing subject to test. Under the guise of removing corpses from cryo pods, several of these unique survivors were taken to a remote lab.

What occurred in that lab was not recorded or acknowledged by anyone. The suspected researchers involved faded into the background, their names sneaked onto publications and reports by research groups that swear to the authenticity and accuracy of the list of participating researchers in their study. To this day, no one knows for sure who the visionary scientists that drafted the initial findings on _Homo ascendus_ were.

* * *

A/N: Not the last OC I will introduce to show scenes on the battlefield, but this is the last chapter dedicated to the slow start before bullets start flying. The action picks up next chapter, and the fighting will continue from chapter 5 to 7. Chapter 4 will be posted within the week.


	4. Chapter 4

_Somewhere in the Eastern Sector of Serenity Valley, Planet Hera_

Looking down from above, Serenity Valley is impressively long and winding. Wearing a thick lush coat of century old pine trees, the valley was virtually untouched by human presence for decades after terraforming took. It was only when prospectors found a large deposit of nickel and copper near the western exit of the valley that the settlers of Hera turned their attentions to this tranquil dale. Soon after the initial establishment of the mining town of Emerald Glen, loggers began to clear away the trees to the east to fuel the development of the town and to create land for local farms.

For a few decades, Emerald Glen prospered as the demand for raw material skyrocketed in the Core Planets. Loggers continued to fell trees to make way for farmland, and a small scale space launch site was built against a near vertical cliff on the other side of the mountain, an effort made by the local officials to increase the frequency of ore deliveries to the Core.

And then, the raw ore market took a nosedive when an Alliance Dreadnought warship sent multiple megaton nuclear warheads and an experimental gigaton nuclear weapon into an asteroid on a near collision course with Planet Sihnon. The asteroid was blasted into pieces, and a brilliant and mostly harmless meteor shower graced the inhabitants of Sihnon that night. The remaining pieces of the asteroid flew off into deep space, all except the nickel-iron core that embedded itself on the uninhabitable moon that orbited Sihnon. The moon soon became a hotbed of mining activity, giving the Core Planets enough nickel and iron ore to last decades.

As a result, half of Emerald Glen shut down, and the forestry clearing stopped, never to begin again. Copper ore demand was still stable, and the town continued its operations until an astronomer on Whitefall discovered Higgin's Moon, a minor planet on a 60 year elliptical orbit that trailed from the outer edge of the Core to beyond the edge of the solar system. Prospector teams from Planet Santo intercepted the moon, and found a wealth of ores, copper included. The Core Planets then mounted a massive settlement project, and within a year Higgin's Moon became the primary source of ore for the Core just as the minor planet was starting its orbit near the Core.

Thus, all of Emerald Glen shut down, and the population trickled down. The Valley was cleared of forests to about 20 kilometers in, and the remaining 30 kilometers of the Valley to the east remained as thickly forested as since the initial terraforming. The buzz of a chainsaw had not been heard for many decades by the sparse inhabitants of the Valley, but it is with this high pitch buzz whining in his ear that General Scott Beck of the 33rd Armored Regiment spoke to Lt. Ellis of the Southern Frontline HQ.

"GPS puts us about a klick from their flank. At the rate we are going, we are going to get there in a few hours. However, my men are tired, and without intel on their base layout, attacking after sunset is not an appealing idea to me. Now, I respect Colonel Donovan and his experiences in defensive warfare against the Alliance, but I am the offensive General here, and attacking at dawn will be better for my men and just as demoralizing as a night assault."

At the other end of the line, Ellis stifled a sigh, and gave his assignment one last attempt. "Right, General, but the Alliance is mobilizing on our Western Flank, and it is very likely that they will complete their mobilization tonight, and push out with a two-pronged attack tomorrow morning. They have been known to do this time and again. It is of Colonel Donovan's opinion that a night assault will catch the Alliance at their most disorganized, and we wouldn't run the danger of having them catch us off guard with a night attack of their own."

General Beck gave short barking laugh, almost delighted in the idea of the Alliance attacking the 142nd PDF first. "Then we will catch them from behind, and crush them as between a hammer and an anvil!"

The sound of delight was carried quite the distance from the phone receiver in Ellis's hand, and the nearby Corporal Hunter looked at Ellis with an empathetic wince. The Lieutenant did finally let loose that repressed sigh. "Yes General, I will inform Colonel Donovan of your plans. Best of luck out there."

"Cheer up, Lieutenant. We will sweep the Alliance off of their feet tomorrow; just make ready to intercept any deserters that head your way. General Beck out." Handing the phone to a waiting Corporal, General Beck looked up and down the line, for the entire four thousand infantry soldiers, two hundred M551 Sheridan light tanks, and the four hundred odd support and armored personnel carriers traveled in a line, along a path slowly being cleared by the teams of loggers at the head of the line through the dense forest.

The going had been tough; drudging through the thickly forested valley has been slow and stifling to say the least, but the servicemen and women of the 33rd Armored has behaved and performed admirably. General Beck smiled, hearing another pine tree creak and watching as it fell to the side, allowing for another few feet of advancement. But this will all be worth it, to see the shock on the Alliance forces as the 33rd Armored appear like phantoms and strike like lightning through their always inadequately defended flanks!

General Beck's smile grew, baring his teeth. Oh such a glorious sight it will be, such a crushing victory awaits, to send the Alliance running with tails between their legs!

* * *

_Beachhead Command Base, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera_

The white light, pouring out of the high intensity LED bulbs that dotted the ceiling and reflecting off of the pearly walls, assaulted Brigadier General Lucas Weir's open eyes. It was the presence of the entire visible spectrums, a symbolic representation of all-inclusiveness of the perceivable Universe, and a sharp contrast to all-consuming black void of his eyes. Cloaked in white, all things came to him, flying like strings whirling down a drain. Time flew, not straight, but in a curved fashion, bending and waving and snapping for his limited attention.

Spaced out in a table in front of him were pictures of Brown Coat officers known to be stationed on Planet Hera. Mug shots, profile shots, and even pixilated top-down spy satellite photos of those suspected to be in charge of Serenity Valley and Serenity Base were placed closest to Weir, whose glossed over pupils jumped wildly in its rapid movements.

From each picture Weir saw a line, a warping string of Time that was at once pulled by Weir and pulling on him. The white light helped him see the strings, follow them into twisted labyrinths of endless cycles, and pierce the veil of Time to gaze at what could come. Or so he believed, at the very least. The scientists at the Academy had tested his claim rigorously, all at his own painful expense, but concluded that it could only be a placebo effect. They had told him so, in clear and precise words, but the placebo effect persisted; he could always _see_ clearer when there was white. Could it even be called placebo effect then? Or perhaps he still believed in the virtues of the white light, regardless of his acknowledgement that it is merely a placebo, and it is that belief which granted the virtual construct its manifested powers.

In Weir's mind, the white light kept him wrapped him in a blanket of warmth, damping the pain and strengthening his resolve, to take the plunge that Time was sadistically waiting for. Picking out one string, Weir plunged and was pulled into the plunge, dragging along and was dragged along, into a cracked mosaic world of flickering strobe lights and flashing images. All the while, the rest of Time pulled on and was pulled by Weir, rescuing the plunged and resisting the plunging; ripping, tearing, and shredding away the protective cloak, until at last they latched onto the vulnerable psyche of a scarred boy, and _**pulled**_.

Weir opened his mouth and screamed silently, his back arching as his muscles entered the state of tetanus. His eyes shot skyward, looking directly at the white light even as his body and mind stretched his eyelids to the utmost and the entirety of the visible spectrum rushed in to shatter the cracked mosaic and to unbend the string of Time, if only for a brief second. And in that second, in a vision of a blinding flash, Weir _**saw**_.

* * *

_Alliance Military Vessel Venus, Cruiser-class, high orbit around Planet Hera _

"Heart rate and blood pressure increasing, within standard perimeters; SRP-72 is entering trance state." One of the two scientists stared at his split-screen monitor, watching numbers and lines fluctuate.

"Core temperature rising, increased brain activity, and beginning rapid eye movements; he is in hypnopompic state." The other scientist monitored a different set of graphs and charts, his fingers flying over the keyboard. "Beginning MRI of the brain."

"Core temperature dropping; convulsions are starting." The first scientist switched his monitor over to a security camera view on the subject, and frowned. "Is he screaming?"

The second scientist rolled his chair over, and put on the headphones. "No, there is no sound coming from the subject. Behavior is within established norms."

The first scientist had taken over the second scientist's station, and was examining the neuroimaging results. "Synapse firing on track. Full neocortex activation expected within ten seconds."

"Tetanus reached, and screaming posture maintained." The second scientist continued to listen through the headphones. "Still no sound, the subject is behaving normally. It might be a new behavioral response; time noted. We will need to find the trigger."

"Neocortex has been fully activated. Heart rate, blood pressure, and core temperature are plummeting." A few keystrokes by the first scientist brought up similar looking graphs saved on the hard drive. "The rate of decrease is slightly faster than previous records; noting the change."

"Syncope achieved; starting six minute countdown. Total length of episode was ten minutes and forty seven seconds." The second scientist removed his headphones. "It was shorter than before. We will need to go back and time each phase."

"You want me to inform the Academy, or do you want to?" The first scientist took off his glasses, his hands rubbing his eyes.

"I can do it. You should contact the General." The second scientist stood up and stretched.

Both scientists returned to their respective stations, and the sound of keystrokes echoed in the room.

* * *

_On route to Emerald Glen, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera_

Corporal Alexander Treadwell sat in the truck bed of a near-derelict army truck, along with five other members of his new squad. Private First Class Lucas Richardson sat directly opposite of Treadwell, cradling his grenade launcher as he gazed ahead. Private Jacob Fillion and PFC Nathan White were next to Richardson, one carrying a large satchel of mortar rounds while the other laid the barrel and the base plate across his lap. PVT Miguel Chandler and PFC Kevin Harris had their RPG launchers propped up in an upright position, knuckles white as they wrapped their hand around the tube in an iron grip.

Treadwell felt his stomach lurch again as the right front tire of the truck sank into a pothole, the rusted the skeleton of the vehicle groaned audibly in protest. The driver could be heard cursing even as he shifted gears and floored the pedal. The truck tires grinded against the loose gravel, sending a cloud of yellow dust into the air, while the engine hummed loudly. There was a second lurch; the engine went into a coughing fit, and the exhaust vomited black smoke, but the trapped tire was inching its way out of the pothole.

The driver gave one last yell of encouragement, a bang on the dashboard for good measure, and the truck was free, back on the dirt and gravel road that at least promised equal retribution to the Alliance, should they push past Emerald Glen and moved to strike the Frontline HQ.

"Oh god…I think I am going to be sick" Private Jacob Fillion grumbled, his face turning paler by the second.

"Hang in there, trooper." Treadwell spared PVT Fillion a sympathetic glance before turning his eyes back to the line of brown buildings appearing ahead.

* * *

_Beachhead Command Base, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera_

Two men walked side by side, identical black leather soles clicking softly as they moved across the black tarmac. Black shades masked their eyes, and large black suit coats hid their form from the not-so-covert glances sent their way by the population of the command base. The only distinguishing feature of the duo was the gloves that they wore; one had pair of sky blue gloves, while the other wore a white pair. Overhead, the Aether Transporter hummed as it ascended into the atmosphere, blasting the surface with a wave of hot air that made the refuel staff grimace with discomfort.

Unlike the last time an Aether Transporter made a reentry trip, there was no contingent of staff officers waiting to greet this duo of high ranking officials. Instead, the pair walked off the airfield and into the base unmolested. Security personnel only need one swipe of their Ident Cards before wanting to flee to their barracks for stopping operatives of the Parliament. Before long, the rumor mill spread the news of two men in black in commission with Parliamentary Override throughout the base, leaving the duo to walk to their destination in relative peace.

* * *

_Emerald Glen, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera_

Corporal Treadwell grabbed his grenade launcher with his left hand, placed his right hand on the rail, and vaulted over the truck bed barriers. His iron-plated army boots landed on the loose gravel with a crunch, and the rest of his squad began to unload the ammo loaded on the truck. Around him the six other trucks were disgorging their own passengers, and Treadwell took a moment to study the town that they will most likely die defending.

The town looked odd, Treadwell decided. It was too desolate, too empty. There were no potato runners about, fast little sprinters that carried rations between squads entrenched in separate houses. There were no honking of Jeeps, kicking up dust along this gravel road in plain daylight because some rear echelon staff officers thought themselves invincible to bullet and shrapnel. There were even no loud voices, no catcalling between squads and no lame jokes being flung by bored privates huddling by windows.

The town did not feel like the frontline of an upcoming battle.

It felt like a ghost town.

"Where's the tumbleweed?" A soft chuckle came from PFC White, while his mortar team partner PVT Fillion dry heaved.

"At least this means there will be ample accommodations. Maybe they will even put us up in a hotel." PVT Chandler was reaching up to receive a box of ammo from PFC Harris. White turned to shoulder a crate from Richardson.

"I much rather they put us in an underground bunker; six inches of steel plating between us and the Alliance." Harris dropped three from crates on Chandler, and then vaulted off the truck himself.

"That's not enough." Treadwell strapped his grenade launcher over his shoulder, and grabbed two crates from Chandler. "They will blow right through it."

"They will?" Harris took a crate from Chandler.

"So you haven't met them yet. Where were you stationed?" Richardson came off the truck, carrying the last crate of ammo under his armpit.

"Fort Magellan, on the continent to the East; they glassed us from above. I was lucky to get out on that ferry." Harris spoke, his voice wistful.

"Well, you are in for a surprise. Those Alliance frakers, they know how to make it hot." White walked over, patting Harris on the shoulder.

"A new weapon? Flamethrower?" Incendiary rounds?"

"Worse." Fillion finally joined the rest of the squad, his face less pale than before. "It's a laser tank."

"More like a monstrosity straight out of science fiction." Chandler lit a cigarette.

"You see the white light, and then you die." White borrowed Chandler's lit lighter to light his own cigarette. "If you think about it, it really should be the other way around."

"Well, frak." Harris joined the smokers.

White chuckled. "And that's the example of an understatement, ladies and gentles."

* * *

_Beachhead Command Base, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera_

Colonel Vincent looked at the officer who had just handed him a report with a frown. "Are you absolutely sure about this?"

The officer nodded. "I debriefed the guards myself, and checked the electronic records. This is legitimate."

The Colonel turned to General Jarvis Lawrence. "Sir, we have two agents of the Parliament onsite, with full access Parliamentary Override. I was not notified of their arrival until just now."

"And nor was I." The general was leaning against a holographic table, depicting a mechanized battalion on the western entrance into Serenity Valley. "Check in with secure communications, see if they got a message that was bounced to us from the fleet." A few words muttered under the breath, and the general spoke up again. "And have whoever is in command of the 42nd Mechanized to get them moving. Lieutenant Colonel Jay was a fool to think he could survive on a frontline battlefield, with his complete lack of field experience, but we should at least put his firepower to use, before they get turned into scrap metal by standing still and inviting an artillery strike."

Colonel Vincent nodded and walked away, grabbing an officer as he went to delegate some of his tasks. General Lawrence shifted the view on the holographic table, now looking over at the Independent southern frontline.

* * *

_Western Frontline, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera_

The house was a wooden shack, a simple single floored bedroom with an integrated kitchen and plenty of windows for natural lighting. The room was not big, but it was luxurious by military standards, even when the dozen of surviving Sergeants pile into the room for strategic debriefing. For now, he has the room to himself, the first rest he has gotten since the brilliantly-conceived but poorly-executed defense at the mouth of the Valley earlier in the week.

That defense had claimed the lives of around a hundred men, of which there were a disproportionately large number of officers. The enemy was dropping paratroopers, their typical reconnaissance protocol following a round of satellite and aerial surveillance. FieldOps had managed to spot the dropships using a high-power telescope, and passed the telemetry data over to Frontline HQ. There, the plan was hatched to ambush the paratroopers at their landing zone, simple and elegant, if only.

True to their nickname, F-ed Up failed to spot the second wave of dropships that departed shortly after the first wave, and so it was those ambushing that became the ambushed, and the trap at the landing zone turned into a clusterfuck. The most devastating losses suffered during the mess was inflicted by the Alliance sniper teams in the second wave that managed to slip away to the high ground, and then Independent Officers started dropping one by one until counter-snipers finally silenced those lethal guns.

All the while, the two companies assigned to the ambush mission were caught between two walls of bullets, and people started dying by the dozens. They were lucky to have the terrain advantage, being on top of a hill that crested between a flat farmland and a dried out riverbed that served as the LZ for the enemy, which prevented the paratroopers from overrunning their position. The Brown Coat NCOs led their squads on an ordered retreat, constantly repelling the harrying squads sent by the reconnaissance companies to probe the retreating line.

The hill turned into mountain, and the fertile soil gave way to hard gravel. There, in a long, thin line that took advantage of every rock and sapling, the Brown Coats dug in, sparse ammunition redistributed among the survivors. With grim determination, the battle weary men assented to their leader's – his – command to hold their position at all cost. Further down the hill, the parachute units organized and readied a steady infantry advance, to overwhelm their less numerous enemies with sheer volume of fire. Up the mountain they advanced, and to their surprise, found a hardened foe that would not lie down, and the harsh report of gun fire echoed in the air once more.

Blood soaked the mountain that day, both sides fighting with their backs figuratively or literally backed into a corner. Though lacking heavy weaponry, the Alliance forces were supplied with an abundance of ammunition, and could maintain a loud and continuous suppressing fire while slowly creeping up the mountain. On the Independent side, bullets became as precious as blood, and to some, even more so. Some risked life and limb to ensure their bullet claimed a life, while others huddled deeper into the small foxholes they had dug. They were growing desperate, and then the last bullet was fired, a singularly unimpressive crack from an NCO's service pistol. Afterwards, the only sound that could be heard along the Brown Coat line was faint prayers.

Then, through the clouds the Angels appeared, their silvery bodies glistening with reflected sunlight. With a long shriek of hateful vengeance, the Angels descended upon the battlefield, and from their underbelly came a rain of fire and death. Anti-personnel shrapnel missiles shredded entire squads in the blink of an eye, and armor piercing rounds riddled the brave or slow individuals that did not find cover in time. In one flyover the Alliance advance was broken, and in the next the Angels reaped divine retribution upon paratroopers for the blood of free men that was forcibly shed that day.

The remnants of the two Independent companies hauled themselves out of what cover they had dug, and charged into the Alliance troopers that were still standing. Without any ammo, the fight was close and personal. Most Brown Coats took the first opportunity to pick up an Alliance weapon, firing point blank into their targets. Others grappled with their enemies, punching and kicking until their foe became unconscious. A few had combat knives, and used those silvery blades to slit throats and puncture hearts.

The few Alliance paratroopers left did not go down without a fight. Close quarters meant that bullets was sure to hit a target, and the random flailing of a submachine gun in full automatic fire claimed more than a few lives by sheer luck and volume of fire while its owner was being beaten on the head with a rock. Eventually, the clip ran dry, and the gun continued to click in the hands of its dead owner.

There was no cheering when the brutal melee ended a few moments after it erupted. The Angels screamed past by into the horizon, and everyone looked up at the white trails left in the sky. They kept on staring even after the Angels disappeared over the next mountain range and the sound of their engines could no longer be heard. Then, there was a soft sigh, and people started to react. Some cried, some laughed, and a few made a hiccupping sound. Regardless, they had survived. The Angels gave them their lives.

They were alive.

He was alive.

A hand radio cracked and buzzed, and then a voice came through, one from Corporal Zoe Alleyne.

"Sir, they are starting to move out. The troop transports are loading, and the new models definitely look functional."

The radio cracked again, clicked twice, and a second voice reached his ear. "They still have a good amount left to load, but it should take them no more than 30 to reach you once they set off." PFC Jacob Weston reported. Too bad even his suave voice cannot make this news sound pleasant.

He moved his hand and grabbed the radio on his belt, and pressed a button. There was a hiss and a click.

"Roger. Make sure you get yourselves to a good vantage point to cover us in the fight. Reynolds out."

The failed ambushed had left a hundred men dead and another hundred bleeding out on the medical bed. Their strength had been reduced by half, but that was only numbers. The Alliance had come to take their home, to burn their land, and to stripe them down until they are a people of passive automatons, but they will not have an easy time of it. The Independent line held on that mountain, had held on other planets, and will continue to hold at Serenity Valley, as strong as the heart of oak. By the blessing of Angels and the grace of God, the western flank shall not break, not when each and every man left standing is willing fight to the very last.

Malcolm Reynolds stepped out of his shack; a ray of sunlight warmed his rugged, unshaven face. His eyes scanning over the mass of men busy digging and constructing the last of the traps and earthworks to delay and frustrate the enemy.

He took a step, his hand clenching around his cross, and let that final image of the disappearing Angel fade. With it returned the daunting tangibility of a painful death, but he shook it off with practiced ease.

He was First Sergeant Malcolm Reynolds, in command of Bravo and Delta Companies of the 3rd Battalion of the 142nd Planetary Defense Forces, and he had a battle to win.

* * *

_Beachhead Command Base, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera_

General Jarvis Lawrence stared at the sheet that Colonel Vincent handed him, a confusing message from a member of the Integrated Defense Committee, a political faction of the Alliance Parliament. But the chain of command could not be ignored, though it is strange to be ordered to ignore a separate chain of command. The commander took a second glance at his orders and crumpled it.

"Sir?" Vincent asked as the general took out a lighter and burned the paper ball.

"Just following orders." Lawrence took another looked at the holographic table. Contrary to what he had expected, the orders made no mentions regarding Parliamentary agents on his base, and instead reminded Lawrence of his main objective to take control of Serenity Valley at all haste, while giving him leeway to make unilateral decisions to achieve this goal. The reasoning was riddled with political speak, but it boiled down to that a separate faction of the Parliament was moving to take over the oversight of the operations on Planet Hera, and the IDC was unwilling to relinquish control when a pivotal victory was close to be gained.

While his eyes drifted over the troops numbers that were ready for deployment, his mind again wondered to the mysterious orders. By all indications, the Parliamentary agents were working for this other faction of the Parliament, though it is still unknown how this takeover will occur. The simplest would be for an officer of higher rank and greater political backing to just declare himself in command, though there are no other generals on base, and Weir seemed more than content to remain in his billet, given the periodic reports Major Baker was sending. Something strange was definitely at play here, and Lawrence very much disliked potential political complications, especially with an enemy army was stationed just some klicks away.

But regardless, it was neither the place nor the time to go down the rabbit hole to try and understand politicians, not when each extra hour gave the Independents more time to fortify their static defenses. General Weir refused his summons to take part in the planning, and war waits for no man. Lawrence pulled up the inventory listing on the hologram, scanning over the latest progress report on the heavy artillery unloading from the orbiting fleet.

"Time to commit." A soft whisper under his breath, but the diligent Colonel Vincent caught it. A loud whistle, courtesy of the Colonel, shrieked across the command center. Without a single reaction to acknowledge that he had even heard the whistle, General Lawrence spoke to the now attentive staff officers in the room.

"Send the orders, commence attack on the enemy southern frontline!"

* * *

_Academy Codex, Entry 4, Classifications of Homo ascendus_

Shortly after the transmission of the preliminary findings on _Homo ascendus_ to a few select leaders of the Global Exodus Alliance onboard _Prometheus_, a group of researchers disappeared from all records, and a portion of _Artemis_ suddenly became restricted. Prior to this event, the established rotation schedule was completely disrupted as a majority of the staff was prematurely ordered into cryo sleep, and a separate team was thawed for the first time since liftoff.

As with before, no records remain of the experimental protocols employed by this unknown group of scientists, but the results are intimately known by all scientists of the modern Academy. The resulting report was the classification of _Homo ascendus_ and their capabilities, one that has since been vastly expanded upon due to the efforts of modern Academy researchers. The most current abstract of said report is included below.

Of the _ascendus_ known to the Academy, a vast majority are found to possess _Class One _psychic capabilities. Genetics appears to favor the inheritance of _Class One _inducing genes, as _Homo ascendus_ progeny tend to inherit _Class One_ abilities when the two parents are of different psychic classifications. Two additional classes, _Class Two_ and _Class Three_, also exist, though these subjects were a lot rarer, and there were greater variation in the manifestation of their powers.

Subjects with _Class One_ psychic capabilities are deemed as the most dangerous members of the _ascendus_. Their powers all revolve around manipulation of force, reducing or outright eliminating forces that normally exist, or creating forces where there is no physical actor to perform the work. These forces could be subtle, rewiring brain synapses or actively generating sound waves that would interfere with incoming or outgoing noises. In the most catastrophic case, this force can give rise to a miniature black hole, ripping apart the local space time continuum. Fantastic feats of all sorts can be accomplished if a nudge was given at the appropriate time.

_Class Two_ subjects, on the other hand, possess no such capability to change the world around them. Instead, they act as universal receivers; their psychic abilities gifting them with what the layperson would call "mind-reading." Such a description, however, is wholly unfit to label the fantastic manifestations of mental receptive powers.

The first recorded _Class Two_ subject was rather mundane compared to those that followed. He was capable of instinctively knowing the most recent memory of others near him. Subsequent _Class Two _psychics displayed powers of knowing a person's most heartfelt intent, hearing all active thoughts of those nearby, or even understanding the future behaviors of an individual.

_Class Three _subjects are by far the most intriguing wielders of psychic capabilities. The most apt description manages to encompass all relevant subjects is "living black holes, of sorts." While not literal beings of such dense matter that they exert a gravitational force strong enough that even light cannot escape, some does exhibit the ability to halt all light within a small perimeter. A majority of _Class Three _subjects, instead, are metaphoric black holes, each capable of absorbing a substance, physical or otherwise. One particularly useful subject drains willpower, while another can take away pain. Different manifestations are known to have different conduits of release for the absorbed substance.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Chapter five officially begins the battle at the Southern frontline, showcasing the start of combat, while chapter six will finish it off. Chapters seven and eight will set up and conclude the battle on the western frontline. I will be updating once a week for few weeks, as I only need to comb through 6-8 for grammar mistakes and such.

* * *

_Southern Frontline, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera_

"Move. Move. MOVE!" Lieutenant Joseph Power cried out, his words spurring those nearest to him into a frenzy of activities. The Lieutenant himself grabbed his M16 rifle with his left hand, kicked dirt into the small fire he had built with his right foot, and pressed the radio communication button with his right thumb. The forward scouts had reported that the Alliance was moving out of their base, regiment-strength, and the extra commotion inside the base itself suggests that a full frontal assault was being mobilized. Lt. Powers spoke into his radio, "all units, we got incoming!"

Along the southern Independent frontline, small fires winked out as the men made ready for the coming engagement. Since the frontline was established a week ago, the Alpha, Charlie, and Easy Companies of 3rd Battalion made camp just behind the line of foxholes dug on the hill that rose into a mountain behind them and sloped down onto the flat valley floor before them, resting in sleeping bags under the starry sky. The weather had been accommodating, and aside from daily skirmishes with Alliance probing elements, the men might even describe their deployment as being pleasant.

They were later joined by two Companies of the 58th Reserved, bringing the total number of defenders up to a thousand men along the frontline. When the Alliance shuttles started landing heavy machinery that looked suspiciously like artillery pieces, the men expended their individual foxholes to connect with neighboring foxholes, creating isolated tracts of trenches and fortifying them with sandbags on the parapet. Luckily, the artillery shelling never came, and the frontline became more elaborate as squads dug passages to one of several underground ammo dumps established midway between the frontline and support line, while camouflaging their short trenches with dirt and branches. Each fireteam occupied their own elongated foxhole, and the entire frontline was thusly spread out a kilometer across the direct passage between the Alliance camp and the Frontline HQ.

Powers landed in the trench with crunch, his steel-plated boots crushing the gravel underfoot. Next to him, Corporal Zachery Browne unfolded the bipod on his Mk 48, and set his lightweight machine gun on top of sandbagged parapet. He shouldered the machine gun, feeling the buttstock fitting snugly against his shoulder joint, before setting it down and checking on his sidearm. Powers did likewise, holding his M16 in a comfortable grip while leaning forward against the walls of the foxhole. Looking down the sight, he could see a small cloud of dust raising a few klicks away.

Two more thumps marked the arrival of the last two riflemen of Power's fireteam. PFC Hicks and Booth carried with them two ammunition crates, one of which Corporal Browne immediately grabbed, and the other was placed on the ground for anyone to restock their ammo . Powers relaxed, rolling his neck to loosen the tension, and glanced up the hill. There, a second line of foxholes marked the location of their long range support, mortar and sniper volunteers from various broken Brown Coat armies that made their way to Serenity Valley.

The enemy's forward elements will arrive within the hour, and the full might of the Alliance invasion force will crash upon them later that day. The time has come to test the strength of their resolve, and Powers hoped that the test will not prove to be fatal.

* * *

_Beachhead Command Base, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera_

The gloved duo walked with matching strides, their destination shining brightly before them, the sole beacon of light in a sea of depressing grey fatigues and dark green camouflage. Its entrance was blocked, an Army staff officer tapping incessantly on the entrance monitor while an accompanying squad of security personnel formed a loose ring around the officer. The duo did not hesitate, their expressions as emotionless as they first stepped off the Aether Transporter.

Two of the security personnel moved to intercept them, but a quick flash of their Ident Card with the words "Ministry Personnel" in red ink caused the two soldiers to waver, an opening that the duo took by pushing right on through. Long strides closed the gap between the pair and the door, and the staff officer finally gave up on opening the door and took notice of the two strangers now rapidly approaching him. His face was one of fury, and upon seeing the duo his eyes narrowed.

The white gloved man turned his head slightly to glance at his partner, a tiny nod preceding a soft whisper. "Alfred, take care of this."

The blue gloved man gave an imperceptible tilt of his head in acknowledgment, and the pair's path diverged. Alfred continued straight, meeting the Army officer with an emotionless nod and the presentation of his Ident Card. The white gloved man headed for the entrance monitor and entered a simple six letter password, causing the white door to hiss and slide open. The operative slipped through, and the door shut itself once more, a series of loud clicks signaling the engagement of titanium locks.

Inside, the glare of light increased tenfold. Even under the shade of his darkened spectacles the white gloved man squinted in discomfort. It took him a few seconds to adjust to the lighting, and in those few seconds a long moan escaped from a mass sprawled on the floor. The operative immediately stepped forward, going down on his knees so that he could lift and cradle the head of the trembling man in his lap. The operative took off his glasses, singing a soft melodious hymn that seems to calm the suffering man. Keeping his voice low, the white gloved man massaged the man's temple in a slow circular motion, bringing his patient back to consciousness.

A pair of dark pupils contracted and pulsed, rotating around randomly before focusing on the face before it. A smile, "Lothair."

The hymn stopped. "Yes Lucas. Do you want to start the amelioration process now?"

Weir exhaled in pain, the trembling of his body visibly becoming more violent. "Please do."

Lothair leaned back and closed his eyes, his thumbs pressing on Weir's temples. There was a flash of warmth that surged through his body, and Weir felt his eyelids starting to droop. The last thing he heard before falling into a peaceful unconsciousness was an angelic chorus about the savior and his apostles.

* * *

_New Dublin Executive Hall, New Dublin, Planet Londonium_

_It was twenty years ago._

_The room, less of a room and more of a large artificial cavern built by the architecture of man, was hosting a fundraiser event, for the incumbent Londonium Prime Minster running for reelection._

_The vast chamber was vibrant, a thousand different people generating tens of thousands of unique stimuli, while the gleaming chandeliers from above slowly rotated to shower the people below with a soft rain of sparkling light._

_It was a—how did his father put it—high societal function._

_Elegant silk dresses, heavy diamond necklaces, thrice ironed tuxedos pressed to perfection; this congregation was the image of opulence, the physical manifestation of economic dominance, and the very zenith of political power. _

_The conversation flowed around him—above him, to be precise—and he watched and listened, as cultured voices negotiated the fate of their world, plus that of the worlds next to theirs. Billion dollar contracts signed with a griping handshake, political cronyism promised with a laugh and a slap on the shoulder, and the future of the economy decided with a wry smirk and a knowing wink._

_In short, it was everything that should not be occurring, by law or by morality. But inside the grand chamber, the rest of the system was a galaxy away, and when you have multiple densely populated planets grasped in your hand, you couldn't help but play God. Power corrupts, and these high societal politicians were by no means saints in this life or any previous. _

_And he stood there, not by design nor by willingness, but rather because he was four, and if his father wanted to show him off at this high societal function, then it was to the tailor he went for a hand-sewn three piece suit that could feed an entire town for a month._

_But he did not mind; the stuffiness of the room, the arrogance of those around him, the blatant lack of respect for personal boundaries when they try to _pinch_ his cheeks, it was all forgivable. His tears would not be wasted over such trivial persons and irrelevant matters, because tears were reserved for special events, for the happy moments when his father smiled and made the world shine the brighter. His father often said that each tear droplet was a symbol of his love, overflowing because the heart could only hold so much. Tears were a cause of celebration, and now, in this chamber, there was no reason to feel joy, only excessive boredom._

_He tugged on the warm creased hand wrapped around his own pink digits, and heard his father politely excuse himself from the two older gentlemen he was conversing with. He looked up, and saw a warm smile directed at him, not that superficial politician smile he sees on newspapers and on the Net, but _his_ smile._

_The smile was also a question, at least by his deduction. His father had taken him to the restrooms only twenty minutes prior, and he was still holding onto an unfinished macaroon in his other hand. His biological imperatives were already addressed, so was there a rational reason for his spontaneous demand for attention?_

_The question passed, and the larger hand gave his own a soft squeeze. His father shifted, bringing him into view of the two men who were conversing on a topic regarding some Academy. At the sight of him—a boy far too young to be present at such an adult function—the one of the older men paused to examine him with a keen eye while the other directed a question at his father._

_He stood here, gazing back the older man looking at him. The man smiled, winked, while leaning forward so their faces were on the same level. The man had too many wrinkles, and his smiles made the wrinkles fold into unpleasant shapes and crevasse. He stared, impassive toward the man's attention to engage him. He did not trust this man; a slight tickle just behind his eyes told him so._

_Meanwhile, he heard his father voice, normally level and low so as to draw others in closer in order to listen, grew louder as a story flowed out, a story about his success, one of many, which made his father proud with tears._

"_My son is, I say, a natural prodigy. Newton, Einstein, Oppenheimer of his generation! Just last week, when I took him to a music instrument store, he immediately grabbed the highest quality violin. Not some flashy, overly decorated instrument, mind you, but Itzhak Pearlman's. The sound it made, one single note play by my son, had such joie de vivre that the store owner cried a tear. That single pure sound, it just resonated within your soul!" His father's face glowed; his wide smile threatened to reach his ears as he radiated pure joy. The small crowd of career politicians that had been drawn in by the loud words was quietly whispering among themselves; none had seen Henry "Ironguard" Weir so impassioned. Already, the gears of the massive political machinery were turning._

_One of the older man—the same that gave him a closer inspection—turned to face his father. A question left his lips, carried by a voice that was deceptively young. "Impressive innate judgment, few could boast to have an eye for perfection—" His father smiled triumphantly, and the whispers in the background hastened. "—but I do have to ask, because there is a physical limitation to playing an instrument which is longer than the arm that is supposed to hold it, how does your son actually hold the prized relic from the Earth-that-was?" _

_His father's eyes brightened, as if he had anticipated the question and had successfully maneuvered his opponent into the perfect position to deal the crushing blow. His mouth opened, his tongue moved, but then…no sound came out. The world around him –me—warped, the grand chamber started to oscillate, and then a bright light._

_Right before his—my—eyes snapped shut, the lasting memory he—I—had of that night brutishly forced itself before his—my—vision. It was of the older man and his even older companion, and they looked at him—me—with a curiously tactful smile, as if appreciating me with the new information my father was happily providing. But there was a hint of sinister desires, hidden right underneath the surface, beneath those two pale pink pairs of lips. It was the universal declaration of "prey insight," a reflex so subtle that the consciousness rarely ever notices, but my inner eye caught it._

_Just behind the two polite smiles, the two older men ran their tongue across their teeth. All that was missing was the smacking of lips and the tucking of napkins._

* * *

_Southern Frontline, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera_

Lieutenant Joseph Powers stared down his barrel, lined up the shot, and pulled the trigger.

200 meters down, an Alliance soldier in gray fatigues jerked back, blood sprouting from his neck. His squadmates next to him immediately opened fire, pouring suppressing fire in random directions up the hill. In rapid succession, Power calmly aimed and fired two three-shot bursts downrange. Two more soldiers jerked and fell sideways, and the last member of the fireteam ducked behind a small dirt dune, his assault rifle muzzle flashing with each bullet that exited the barrel.

Next to Powers, the constant rhythm of staccato paused as Corporal Browne shifted aim and hosed automatic machinegun fire at the platoon of infantry that was making a dash up the hill. Metal met flesh, and a dozen soldiers fell to the ground while the rest kept on charging. Powers turned, one hand reaching down to grab a fresh clip of ammo while the other ejected the spent clip, and called out a quick order.

"Hicks, Booth. Your ten o'clock!" There was a quick shuffle as the two PFCs altered their body angle, a minute pause as they took aim, and two more M16 rifles opened fire on the exposed Alliance soldiers. In the next trench over, the commanding officer took notice of the latest attempt by the Alliance to breach the thinly held defense line, and four more rifles roared to crush the doomed squad under a hail of metallic fury.

By the time Powers was properly reloaded, the enemy momentum was entirely lost, and the few remaining survivors hugged the dirt. Taking one of the survivors in his sight, Powers let loose a short burst that impacted the crawling target. A stream of gushing blood seeped into the dark brown dirt, staining it further. The last three groveling soldiers of the failed charge died quickly under a second burst of fire by the riflemen in the next trench over.

With the immediate Alliance threat gone, Powers returned to the last gunman of the fire team he had previously dismantled. In the lull of battle, that rifleman had dared to emerge from his cover, and a trio of bullets to the chest quickly made him wish he had hugged the dirt dune all the tighter.

Powers relaxed, letting his shoulder muscles loosen as he quickly surveyed the battle before him. The Alliance forward elements made contact about an hour ago, two companies of light infantry that found themselves overextended as they began to climb the barren steep incline. The commanding officers were not concerned about their lack of support, and eagerly ordered the men to push forth as the surging spearhead of the Alliance grand assault. The reinforced 3rd battalion kept silent, hidden in their foxholes while spotters in the more distant support trenches tracked enemy movements. The order to spring the trap came as one of the spotters saw an Alliance private suddenly twisted towards his NCO with the look of revelation on his face when they were nearly on top of the Independent trench line.

The snap of a sniper rifle report marked the simultaneous collapse of the private and the surge of the 3rd battalion as the Independents pushed aside the dirt covering their trenches. A thousand rifles lit up the mountainside in a volley of murderous crossfire that sent the Alliance reeling. It was fortunate for the Alliance that the trap was spent on a meager four hundred soldiers as opposed to the full Regiment that had just reached the foot of the hill, who immediately reacted by unleashing an inaccurate but nevertheless daunting fusillade up the hillside, suppressing the Independent riflemen who were using their superior height to pour bullets indiscriminately into the mass of Alliance uniforms below.

The two sides traded fire as the Alliance officers brought their battalions back into marching order, and began a Regiment scale fire and movement maneuver towards the Independent foxholes. Three battalions violently encouraged the Independents to duck inside their trenches while the fourth battalion ran up a few dozen meters before taking what meager cover they could find and opening fire on the Independents. The Alliance was thusly leapfrogging up the mountain, their sheer volume of fire allowing them to overcome their terrain disadvantage.

Or so it appeared. Once the Alliance moved sufficiently into range, the support line let loose with a rain of mortar shells that dug bloody holes in the Alliance formation, while the frontline pumped shrapnel grenades towards the battalion that had moved closest, sending equal part dirt and flesh into the air. Independent snipers wasted no time in picking off Alliance officers during the ensuing chaos, while their respective spotters combed the mass of blue uniforms below for more high priority hits. Across the frontline, heavy machinegun in well-dug pits sang a deep baritone as they revealed their presence, mercilessly scything down their exposed foes.

The surprise of this second ambush was complete, and the utter devastation wrecked by the Independents convinced the three Alliance battalions to quickly retreat down to the volley floor, leaving the overextended 1st battalion alone to bear the brunt of their enemy's wrath. Alliance Colonel Carter, commander of the now isolated 1st battalion, screamed for his troops to respond with suppressing fire while ordering for corpses to be piled up for cover. Half of 1st battalion was massacred before Colonel Carter managed to get some resemblance of adequate cover up and running, but once he did, each new Alliance casualty only further strengthened their static position near the center of the Independent's line of defense.

Meanwhile, the three Alliance battalions barely reached the foot of the mountain before their red-faced General, spit flying with every word, ordered the battalions to charge back up the mountain and probe the Independent flanks, or anywhere along the frontline, for points of weakness. Collectively, the three Colonels turned to face the mountain, their humiliated faces red with savage anger as they began to climb the steep incline once more.

As the enemy spread their battle line out across the entirety of kilometer long frontline, Alpha, Charlie, and Easy Companies of the Brown Coat 3rd battalion were frustrated in their attempts to dislodge the Alliance 1st battalion. Human bodies made frustratingly effective sandbags, and any attempt to charge the enemy position was discouraged by near continuous suppressing fire. The only uplifting aspect of the situation was that the volunteer mortar and sniper teams in the support line were performing admirably; the enemy 1st battalion was losing soldiers to every mortar shell lobed and sniper round fired.

Just as the Alliance 1st battalion was finally near its death throes, the Alliance 3rd battalion made a push against the Independent's left flank, punishing the Bravo Company of the 58th Reserved for their insufficient manpower, while the 2nd battalion made a similar assault on the right flank, putting the Alpha Company of the 58th Reserved under extreme pressure. The Alliance 4th battalion rushed up and joined their brothers in the 1st battalion, timely reinforcing the battalion that would have routed after just a few more minutes of the harsh long range assault.

And here they were, once again barely holding back the tides of Alliance rampage. Mortar teams were painstakingly reallocated to relieve the pressure on the Independent flanks, while the three companies of Brown Coat 3rd battalion accepted the grim reality of a long and fatiguing slug match against their fortified assailants. Over on the flanks, the two companies of 58th Reserved were slowly being grinded into pieces as the military might of an entire battalion collided against a well-entrenched company over and over again, each time reaching a new tidemark that was stained into the yellow earth with blood bled by mortar shrapnel and conical lead.

1st Lt. Powers and his squad occupied a rare niche on the battlefield, situated between the entrenched Alliance troops facing the center of the Independent frontline, and the offensive Alliance battalion trying to break through the right flank. Both Alliance forces have probed this position, but neither truly cared to commit, as their attention were already focused elsewhere. However, it would seem that a third party was now interested in breaking through the Brown Coat line of defense at this position, as what appeared to be an entire Company was making a beeline towards the small cluster of ten isolated tracks of trenches under Powers' immediate command.

Powers reached down towards his belt-hang radio, and flicked it on. "Alpha Actual, this is Easy Three. We got incoming, at least company strength—" There was a flicker of movements further down the mountain, a large cluster of grey bodies that were previously masked by incoming Alliance Company. "—scratch that, we got two Alliance Companies incoming; requesting long range support at our position, over."

The radio crackled and hissed as Powers let go of the transmission button, and he turned to Hicks. "Your radio, Hicks." A block of dark grey sailed through the air, and the 1st Lieutenant caught it with his free hand. After checking that the radio was dialed into the channel assigned for the 3rd Platoon, Powers spoke. "3rd Platoon, this is your lieutenant. We got incoming, at least two Companies strong. Ammo up now if you need to, and don't waste your time going after kills; we got long range support coming, just get the Alliance frakers to taste our dirt, and our boys in the back will take care of the rest."

Booth turned and ran down a branching trench towards the ammo dump, and Browne took a pause in his suppressive fire to request another two crates of machine gun ammo. Powers tossed the radio back to Hicks, even as his own crackled and spoke. "Easy Three, this is Alpha Actual, I got no long range assets left to spare. The only unit I can shift away from the flanks would be a single sniper. You are going to have to hold the line on your own, over."

The Lieutenant's free hand clenched into a fist, a curse nearly leaving his mouth; then, a deep breath, and his reply through the radio sounded as forced and choreographed as a first-time actor reading from a script. "Yes sir, a sniper will be a great help. We will hold the line, over."

An actual sigh came from the radio, the wariness of the Captain seeping through. "I will do what I can, Lieutenant, but you are not seeing the battlefield like I am. Trust me when I say this, your platoon is being left very well alone by comparison. The sniper is on channel two dash three, and he doesn't have a spotter. Hold the line, Easy Three. Alpha Actual out."

Powers looked over the parapet, and saw a small dust storm being kicked up by a gust of wind. Beyond the dust cloud, shadows loomed. It was to be their doom, a platoon facing two full companies. His fingers fiddled with the channel dial on his radio absentmindedly, while his mind was torn between informing his troops that there was going to be no mortar support, and letting them have this moment of pre-battle optimism before the reality of war made corpses of them all.

"Powers, that you?" The Lieutenant nearly jumped when his radio came back alive. That voice, he did not expect to hear that voice, not while he was still alive.

"Marrero?" This voice, belong to Donald Marrero, corporal-acting-sergeant in the battalion of the 142nd Planetary Defense Force stationed at Fort Hendrick, presumed dead when the news that the anti-orbital defenses at the Fort malfunctioned, leaving them wide open for a low orbit bombardment.

"That's me, Lieutenant sir!" The military title was spoken in jest, but Powers didn't mind.

"It's good to hear your gorram voice, corporal, and good to have you with us."

"It's sergeant now!" Laughter followed the words. Of all emotions to be felt at that particular moment, when the first of the Alliance Companies stepped through the dust cloud, happiness shouldn't have been one of them. But emotions are fickle, they obey the whims of neither men nor gods, and hearing the joy of his adopted brother—living adopted brother—made Powers swell with happiness.

"It is good to have you with us, Sergeant Marrero. Be sure to give'em hell." Looking down as he moved to clip the radio back onto his belt, Powers saw the channel dial had been changed to read two dash three. Serendipity, divine intervention, or pure dumb luck; whatever the reason, it gave Powers a spark of hope, the seedling of a tiny thought that they just might live to see and fight another day, if fate could be so kind.

Powers changed his radio to his platoon's designated channel. "Easy Company 3rd platoon, engage enemy on my signal. We will hold this ground, no matter the cost." He sucked in a deep breath, moved the radio further from his face so as to not cause feedback, and boomed: "onward we fight!"

The answering phrase to the informal motto of the Brown Coat army was roared across ten stretches of trenches.

"'TIL LIBERTY OR DEATH!"

* * *

_Powers Farm, Dawns Plateau, Planet New Melbourne_

_Feet pounded across the fertile farmland, golden weeds brushed against tanned ankles, and the Sun set the horizon on fire in a deep saturated red. The two adopted brothers chased and raced, the smaller sibling in the front, arms pumping as he broke into an all-out sprint to pull ahead even further. The bigger brother picked up his pace, and the large dying husk of an oak tree quickly filled his vision. The younger brother reached the tree first, pausing briefly before reaching overhead and began to haul himself up onto the sturdy branches. _

_The race had been divided into three stages, beginning with a short swim across the farm pond, followed by a dash across the farm, and ending with climbing to the highest branch of Grandpa Oak. The older brother reached the tree, and leapt, his powerful leg muscles throwing his body a clear feet off the ground. His left hand found purchase on a small branch, and with a powerful heave he pulled himself level and reached for a higher branch with his right arm. As quickly as the smaller sibling had left the older in the dust, the bigger sibling was climbing the tree with a reckless abandon that would make chimpanzees swinging through the jungle look like child's play. _

_The Sun set further, and the first hint of darkness perverted the sky. The golden glow of the weed-infested fields was fading, and in the distance a town bell rang, declaring the end of the working day to the loggers who still fortunately had employment. The younger brother was panting hard, his progress in climbing the tree slowing to a crawl as he desperately kicked his legs in an attempt to haul himself up the third branch from the top. _

_But alas, fate was a cruel mistress that day, snatching away the hard-fought victory just when it became palpable. Muscles bungling, the older brother overtook his sibling, and there was little that the younger brother could do but watch as one meaty palm after another found purchase on that final branch. _

"_Joe." The younger brother called out, "Hey Joey, gimme a hand?"_

_The older brother looked down, and let go of the top branch. Balancing rather precariously on a thin branch, Joseph Powers reached down with one hand and grabbed his brother's wrist. "Come on, Donny, pull."_

_Reversing his hand to clasp Joe's wrist, Donald Marrero hauled himself onto the branch as Powers pulled, and promptly sat down. Sweating profusely, Don smiled in defeat. "Hey Joe, think you won this one." A pause, and a deep breath. "Don't think I could go up anymore. Came close though, eh?" _

_The occupied branch shook as Powers let himself down to sit besides his adopted brother. A silence lingered, as Marrero worked to bring his breathing back under control, and Powers looked with a small frown at red hue of dusk. It was a peaceful picture, two brothers, as different as could be, sharing a high perch, watching as another day fell on Dawns Plateau. _

"_When are you shipping out this time?" The question did not come as a surprise to Marrero; it had lingered in the air for the entire day, delayed by a silent mutual agreement. _

"_Tomorrow; they said the transporter had entered orbit this morning. Was supposed to take them about half a day to get to Dawns, what with them approaching from the far side of the planet and whatnot." Marrero said, looking over his shoulder at his brother, who gave him a small smile._

"_You never know, they could blow a fuse and decide to head back for repairs." Powers mimicked a small explosion with his hands, fingers expanding outwards from a small ball. _

"_It's possible." The words were spoken with quiet mirth, layered with an undertone of sadness._

"_Honestly, you don't have to go—" Powers began, and Marrero cut in. _

"—_we will find a way to pay the mortgage on the farm."_

"_It is a good program, with good pay, and I could make a difference."_

_The two brothers finished at the same time, neither really heard the other's words, but they didn't need to. The same argument had been played out time and time again, with all avenues of persuasion exhausted weeks ago._

"_Well." Powers exhaled deeply, one hand going up to brush through his hair. "Sniper, eh?"_

_Marrero chuckled. "Death from afar. And don't pretend you don't approve."_

"_It…it'll keep you safe. Just always be sure keep another soldier between you and those shooting at you. Soldiery ain't about bravery. Staying alive to see another day is worth more than a moment of glory." Powers lectured._

"_Somehow, I think the training officers will say otherwise." A smile still lingered on Marrero's lips, which had appeared when his older brother switched to his low rumbling of a teacher's voice._

"_And don't let those hairless frakers give you too much grief. You are a strong volunteer, not some random spineless drafter they dragged screaming from their bed." Power remained serious, either oblivious to his brother's smile or simply not caring that Marrero was not taking him completely seriously._

"_Got it. Stand up to the officers when they scream in your face. That will go over really well." _

"_And if they insist on making your life hell, send me a post, and I'll go over and knock their teeth out." And with this violent imagery, the curriculum that Powers recited to Marrero every day since he first announced his acceptance into the Specialist Training Program was concluded. It also served as a not-so-subtle reminder to write home._

"_I will. Take care of the farm. And…and tell Ma good bye for me, would ya?" The smile faded from Marrero's lips, the first hint of seriously entering his words._

"_I will take care of Ma. You…" Powers reached over and gave Marrero's shoulder a squeeze. "I expect to see you come home; you are not leaving me to labor on this farm alone, ya hear?" _

_Marrero nodded, and the two brothers fell silent. A soft wind brushed away beads of lingering sweat, as the brothers sat and watched the last hint of the sun descend beyond the horizon._

* * *

_Southern Frontline Head Quarters, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera_

"Sir." The young Corporal Hunter stood at the edge of tent, hand posed awkwardly to shield his eyes from the harsh glare of the setting sun. In front of him was a swarm of officers, each wearing equal weight in military uniform and musty sweat. The target of the corporal's address was hunched over, his fingers drawing lines over a geographical map of the valley while four different sergeants attempted to transcribe the Colonel's verbal and visual presentation of battle tactics.

"I need Ellis! Lieutenant Ellis!" Colonel Donovan suddenly straightened his back, his head rising above the still scribbling sergeants.

Hunter saw his chance, and his hand shot forward in an attempt to draw the Colonel's eye while he called out: "Colon—"

"Sir! I'm here!" Lt. Ellis popped out of the uniform mass of staff officers occupying the command tent, his voice hoarse but nonetheless audible over the rumbling of overlapping orders being shouted across the tent.

"Tell General Beck of the 33rd to get his boys into combat! Strike fast and he will cut the main body of the Alliance advance in half." With that, Colonel Donovan once again descended to study his map, while Lt. Scott Ellis melted into horde of Brown Coat officers, presumably seeking a path that would lead him out of the tent and towards the communication tents.

"Sir!" Corporal Hunter tried again, though again in vain. Another messenger somehow managed to sneak through the wall of sergeants and hand his report to the Colonel, who snatched it for a quick glance before emitting a crisp and screeching whistle. The noise level in the tent plummeted as all existing conversations ceased in favor of hearing the Colonel's proclamation.

"Alright, listen up! Armories Charlie through Tango has been fully stocked and lined up in alphabetical order behind our medical tents. Jones, find as many of the 139th armored infantry as you can and take them to Armory Charlie. Close quarter combat configuration only. Carter–"

The young Corporal took a couple steps towards to the Colonel, snaking his way around at least five other messengers that had managed to inch closer to the Colonel by what looked like a liberal use of elbow jabbing if the number of officers rubbing their sides was any indication of.

"—and Pearson, round up the willing riflemen lounging by the motor pool, and direct them all to Armory Tango. Johnson, put them into five men fireteams. Go!"

A stream of officers quickly disappeared from the tent, an act which opened the floodgate of deafening conversations that resumed without losing a single step.

"Colonel, sir!" Hunter reached, his hand reaching forward to actually brush the Colonel's shoulder, an act which finally grabbed the commanding officer's full attention.

"Corporal Hunter. You got news from the front?" The Colonel questioned with a quick glance over his shoulder to confirm the identity of the new messenger.

"Sir, they can't hold on any longer. Alliance's got four battalions pushing along the entire line. Captain Richman is requesting air support if their flanks are to hold. They are getting mauled down there." Corporal Hunter hinted of desperation, his tone matching that of Captain Richman, formally in command of Alpha Company of 3rd battalion, and informally in command of all five companies spread along the southern frontline.

Colonel Donovan's hands, which had been visually depicting an encirclement maneuver to trap a small company of the Alliance advance that had gotten lost in the forest and was coming frightfully close to the base camp that the 33rd armored had set up before knowing the Alliance was launching their attack, paused. Corporal Hunter watched as the Colonel twisted and turned his head to read the troop numbers written onto the map, muttering as he went.

"I see" was the Colonel's response, his eyes having scanned the entirety of the southern frontline before turning around to look the Corporal in the eye. "Tell him—the captain—Richman—that he needs to hold on, until nightfall." His voice was low, but still managed to carry a deep sense of conviction.

"Sir, yes sir." Hunter saluted, and turned to leave.

There was a pause in the Colonel's movements, an unintended halt that caught Hunter's attention out of the corner of his eye and made him turn around.

"And Corporal, tell Captain Richman and all his men. God Bless." The Colonel saluted, his military boots clicking together with a loud clack. "Their sacrifice will not be forgotten."

"Yes sir." The Corporal saluted again, shoulders square and eyes hard. "Of course not, sir."

* * *

_Beachhead Command Base, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera_

Weir coughed violently, his whole body trembled with each brutal heave. Still kneeling next to him, Lothair was in the process of wiping a stream of blood that originated from his tear duct. It was a warning sign, a scientist had once said, it was the body's way to saying 'please stop, I cannot handle anymore without sustaining severe injuries.'

Lothair folded up his bloodied tissue and tucked it into an inside pocket of his suit coat. If only half of the mental stress that Weir was shouldering left Lothair on the brink of insanity, then he shuddered to think the mental agony that the psychic had to push through to reach that level of psionic pressure.

"Hey." Lothair spoke softly, letting the melody in his voice inspire a sense of calm in his fellow psychic. When Weir gave no reply and continued coughing, Lothair frowned. His power had never failed. Placing one hand on Weir's shoulder, he reached over to touch Weir's temple with his other hand.

"No." Weir intercepted Lothair by swatting away the gloved hand as if it would shock him. "You can't take anymore. I _can_." His coughing stopped, though his words were mixed in with the rumbling of mucus still left in his throat.

"You are not yet operational. You haveto be operational. My status is insignificant in comparison to your mental condition." However scientific and emotionless those words might have seemed were they written on paper, Lothair managed to infuse a sense of loyalty and hope into his every syllable.

"_Stop!_" Weir pushed himself up with one elbow, he looked almost angry if his face weren't so drained of blood. "_Belay that order!_ I declare myself operational, and our mission objectives stress the importance of haste. _I have mission-critical information!_"

As if a switch was hit, Lothair straightened his back and stood up. "Would you like a hand up?" The words were cold, mechanical, sounding almost like the primitive Audio Input Navigation Integrated Engine currently being tested by Alliance cruisers as replacement to the conventional supercomputers dedicated to plotting a course through the void of space.

"No." Weir got on his knees, his arms shaking but managing to bear the weight of his body as the young Brigadier General attempted to get his legs under himself and stand up. "I need you to open a line to General Jarvis Lawrence, and another line to AMV Venus. Authorization code Sierra Reagan Python Seven Two. Ask for transfer to a General Polekoski on Planet Osirus. Priority override Victor Zulu Kilo Nine Five."

Lothair nodded as he moved to the nearest point-to-point laser communication terminal, gloved fingers moving with practiced ease as he brought the device online.

"Also—" Weir got onto his feet, his stance a bit shaky but he moved with complete confidence as he moved off to a nearby office, one complete with sound-proof walls and eye retina locked door. "—get Alfred to find me a picture of a Brown Coat soldier: one volunteer sergeant Malcolm Reynolds, born on Shadow, the more recent the better. And have it sent to my terminal in this office."

"Yes Weir." Again, the answer lacked its usual melodic qualities, and Lothair did not even look away from his communication terminal.

Lucas Weir labored his way through the door of the office, and the smooth metal barrier slid close behind him with a soft hissing of hydraulics.

* * *

_Academy Codex, Entry 5, the Academy_

The Academy, when seen as a whole, is the equivalent of a mega corporation that receive a large sum of Alliance funding for reasons that will be explained in a later codex entry. The initial founding of the Academy could be traced back to _Artemis_, whose scientists formed the core intellectual think tank that was later augmented by a few select businessmen and corporate executives from other Arks.

The main goal of the Academy, no matter the political era or social conditions, had been and will always be the exploration and advancement of the new _Homo ascendus _species. As the Academy grew in numbers, and colonization began taking place, the Academy diversified its portfolio of research projects. To supplement their flagship research project, the Academy scientists branched into military technologies, theoretical physics, medical advancements, and even horticulture. All products and findings of these research groups were initially used to further the _ascendus_ project. As times passed, and the scientists began surpassing their previous technological advancements, the Academy began monetizing their "outdated" products to the civilian and military markets.

Very early on, the Academy established a discrete system of information and technological dissemination. It was and still is not the goal of the scientists to become famous in the eyes of the public, nor do they wish to become bogged down in the restrictions, financial and ethnical, that come with being recognized as a corporation. To that end, the businessmen of the Academy splintered off to create a wide variety of front companies that would release the research results obtained by the core body of the Academy. Thus, the anonymity of the Academy is maintained, and the no longer needed fruits of its labor successfully sold to the general public.

This is not to say that the scientists of the Academy lived as hermits, isolating themselves from civilization to uncover the mysteries of the world. All but a few of the most sensitive research facilities are located in the major metropolises of the Core planets, though for field testing the Academy uses a number of discrete subterranean sites or sparsely populated moons. To some degree, the population is aware that "science" is being done in these visible research facilities, though thanks to the bargain between the Academy and a certain body within the Alliance, privacy is assured.

The study into the _Homo ascendus_, because of its strict subject requirements and the Academy's willingness to kidnap even the family members of powerful officials, is where the Academy is the most vulnerable for detection. Because the Academy had and still does maintain a high level of separation between its research groups, and contingencies that will allow the organization to disavow a compromised branch to save the whole, this vulnerability does not extend into the other areas of research. Of course, without the _ascendus _project, progress in the rest of the research branches is meaningless.

To advance the _Homo ascendus _project, special facilities were set up early on to accommodate the housing and experimentation on living human subjects. Changes were made to these facilities later on to present a more innocuous front after the Academy elected to step up _ascendus_ discovery by opening onsite schools for specially gifted children. Now, instead of a detective team scouring the planets for potential subjects, ecstatic parents would voluntarily notify the Academy of possible _ascendus_ children. The increased risk of public exposure has thus far been completely justified by the vastly accelerated statuses of the _Homo ascendus_ main and branch projects.


	6. Chapter 6

_Southern Frontline, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera_

The world was ringing, a sharp squeaking that drilled nails into his skull. Everything had turned white, the color of the purest of the winter snow, with the occasional black specks that randomly popped in and out of existence. First Lieutenant Joseph Powers lay prone, trying to wait out the effects of a flash bang grenade that had gone off in front of his face. He could feel his M16 in his right hand, its well-worn handle and a series of notches, and was at least partially reassured. Soon enough, he was hearing a low baritone thumping not so far from him, and he knew Corporal Browne was still alive and kicking.

Slowly, his sight was returning, small pieces of color that pierced the veil of white and black. Powers experimentally moved his knee under him, pushing up while his free hand reached for the parapet. His hand found nothing but air, and he toppled forward, nearly face planting but managing to catch himself in time. More noise was filtering through the ringing, and he heard Booth yelling nonsensical curses punctuated by gunfire. Powers tried again to get up onto his feet, and this time a hand grabbed him under his armpit and helped him along. Hicks said something to him, but the ground spun and for a brief second he had lost all sense of direction. Hicks clapped Powers on his shoulder, the contact grounding him back to reality, to the scene of carnage in front of him.

The two Alliance companies had moved up the hill without any consideration for casualties or coordinated suppressive fire. Their sheer weight of numbers acted as a formidable equalizer in the face of Brown Coat's overwhelming terrain advantage. While Powers' 3rd platoon charged a heavy toll for the distance traveled, it was not enough to stop the Alliance assault. The enemy had been despairingly close to breaching their trenches, the last time Powers had been lucid.

A shape flashed by Powers' returning peripheral vision, and he felt a splash of fluid against the side of his face. Even as he turned to investigate, a boot sank into his stomach and a fist smashed against his temple. Falling ungracefully on his back, the cleansing surge of pain washed aside the lingering aftereffects of the flash bang, and Powers lashed out with his foot to catch his assailant in the groin. The Alliance soldier toppled over, and Powers grabbed his sidearm and performed a quick execution.

Looking around with sorely missed clarity, the dead corpse of Hicks was the first sight to enter Powers' vision. Before the Lt could examine further, a shadow appeared over him, followed shortly by the body of an Alliance soldier crashing into him. Powers felt his pistol hand being slammed repeatedly into the trench wall, and with a savage cry he smashed his forehead into his target's nose. There was a cry of pain, but the pressure on his pistol hand did not lessen. Powers stumped his boot into the enemy's knee joint, followed by a knee to the chest as the Alliance soldier went down. Wrapping his free hand around the neck, Powers whipped his hand to the side, producing an audible crack.

In that brief moment of respite after dispatching the latest enemy, Powers saw a neighboring trench being swarmed by at least ten Alliance soldiers. Browne had turned his machinegun on that trench, firing wordlessly into exposed backs. Booth stood next to him, a combat knife in one hand and an Alliance neck under his other hand. A line of blood ran down the side of Booth's face, a normally friendly visage twisted into a personification of hate.

A yell tore his attention back to his end of the trench, and Powers docked his head just in time to dodge a hail of bullets that kicked up dirt on the opposing wall of the trench. Pulling a grenade from his belt, Powers removed the safety pin and allowed it to cook for a few seconds before tossing it. The explosion went off immediately, and the gunfire ceased. Powers scrambled to pick up his M16 out of the dirt, just as three more bodies jumped down into his trench. Powers unloaded half of his clip into the chest of soldier that faced him, and was swerving around as the butt of a rifle slammed into the back of his head, his vision darkened ominously before returning.

Booth had jumped onto the back of the third Alliance soldier, his combat knife dug deep into the soldier's neck. The second Alliance soldiers brought his rifle to bear, fingers reaching for the trigger when there was a crack and the enemy found himself short one trigger arm. The high velocity anti-personnel sniper round had chewed through fabric, flesh, and bone with ease. Powers swept this last invader's legs out from under him, and Booth buried his knife into the heart.

In the brief lull of combat, Powers reloaded his rifle and tossed Booth his sidearm, which was promptly reloaded. While gunning down another Alliance trooper that had landed in their trench, his radio crackled and coughed before disbursing the message. "All units retreat to support line. I repeat, all units retreat to support line!" The message was repeated a few times, and before the end what remained of Easy Company's 3rd platoon was out of their decimated trenches and running for their lives to their next line of defense. Powers paused briefly in his run to toss his remaining belt of grenades into the ammo dump, refusing the enemy any supplies still left in it.

The same scene repeated itself across the southern frontline, scattered pockets of Brown Coats running up the hill while the occasional tremor in the ground signaled another ammo dump being incinerated. The Alliance soldiers quickly, if not already, took over the abandoned trenches, gunning down the retreating Independents. Booth found his legs cut out from under him in a flail of lead, and Powers hauled his wounded comrade into a fireman's carry while Browne provided what covering fire he could.

Boots pounded the loose dirt, kicking up a not unimpressive cloud of dust, and by some miracle Powers could see the support trenches ahead of them, and drawing closer with each step. He felt Booth convulsing on his shoulder, but could not find the air in his lungs to utter words of encouragement. Browne was next to him, still holding onto his Mk 48 in a feat of endurance he was well known for. For the time being, the Alliance seemed content to regroup in the forward trenches, and bullets chased after the retreating bodies with increasing inaccuracy as distance lengthened.

* * *

_Town Tavern, Dawns Plateau, Planet New Melbourne_

_It had been a year since Donald Marrero left home, and the situation at home wasn't getting any better. Jobs were still hard to come by, and without access to the market of the Core planets the prices of crops were still down in the dirt. In this trying time, at least booze was still cheap and plentiful, and the able bodied men of Dawns Plateau found themselves inevitably drawn to the tavern to socialize, complain, and drown their sorrows in alcohol. _

_The day was just like any other. Joseph Powers left the farm at the crack of dawn to join the loggers, the only reliable work left in their town, and worked until near sun down before retiring to the tavern for a quick bite to eat before going home. The atmosphere in the tavern was somber, nothing out of the norm, and Powers focused on downing his bowl of meat dumplings and mug of beer to sooth the roaring beast that was his stomach. As he paid the owner for the meal, the man looked him in the eye and said, "you be careful, lad. Word is that the Alliance touched down in Morwell, think we could all be a mite more cautious to not draw their ire."_

_Powers nodded, his movements sluggish from a long day of physical labor. He said his thanks and started walking back to the farm, his fatigued mind paying less thought to the danger of invasion and more to the comfort of his bed. Most of the other men were still seated in the tavern, seemingly determined to discuss this Alliance incursion late into the night. _

_The Powers Farm, like all other farms located around Dawns Plateau, was located to the south of the town, and could be reached by following a dirt road maintained by the farm owners for the purpose of going into town. The road also extends even further south, at one point transitioning to a paved road, and ends in Morwell, where the crops would be sold to traders who then transport it off planet. The Powers Farm wasn't the furthest from the town, but it wasn't close either, and the walk was long enough to sober Joe up completely from his pleasant dinner buzz._

_As Powers was about halfway to his farm, a light appeared further down in the road, and it was growing bigger quickly. Remember the tavern owner's warning, Powers moved off the road and hid in the irrigation canal on the side of the road, thankful for the cover it provided. Soon enough, a convoy of hover vehicles rushed by. Powers risked a look, and saw what looked like military soldiers sitting on those hovercrafts. Only one faction had hovercrafts, and that meant the Alliance was moving in on Dawns Plateau. Powers moved as quickly as he could along the irrigation canal, determined to get his Ma out of the area before violence erupted._

* * *

_Valley Floor, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera_

A massive fleet of Alliance vehicles rushed across the flat valley floor, APCs mixed in with wolf packs of B551 Pallas light mobility tanks and the solitary M47 Enyo heavy assault tanks. It was combined might of the 21st armored battalion supported by the 202nd infantry regiment, a full strength convoy of over 150 tanks plus 500 APCs that grinded the gritty dirt of the valley, producing a blooming cloud of dust and exhaust. There was no subtlety in this charge, for none was needed. Traveling at an average speed of 65 kilometers per hour, this vehicular battering ram was set to smash through what was left of the Independent southern frontline in less than twenty minutes.

The Pallas wolf packs formed the spearhead, their lighter frames giving them a higher maximum velocity. The Enyo heavy tanks trailed behind the Pallas, their massive treads swallowing rocks and crushing them into pebbles. The typical Alliance armored stratagem called for an overwhelming first strike of the more mobile elements to unleash their long range payload, then immediately splitting aside to let the heavier elements absorb the answering salvo. Depending on the situation, the lighter elements will then either move to flank the enemy position or maneuver behind the heavier elements for an attrition advance. The supporting APCs would unload their passengers as necessary, to secure overran enemy positions or to counter enemy anti-armor infantry units.

Against an enemy with no known armored assets and all known air assets tied up by Alliance air far to the east, this assault looked to checkmate the Independent southern defense, and bring the Alliance within artillery bombardment range of Serenity Base. Even the most well laid plans, however, can be pulled apart at one unattended seam. The Alliance intelligence was thorough in assessing the anti-armor capacity of the Independents, and the logistic corps was the definition of efficiency to deliver so many vehicles planet-side amidst so many simultaneous assaults across multiple theaters of conflict on Hera. However, no one, from the intelligence grunts to General Lawrence, could have imagined that the Independents could move an entire armored regiment through a heavily forested region of the valley, but worked a miracle they did, and a line of tree to the convoy's right flank suddenly fell.

The forest disgorged a swarm of Sheridan light tanks from the 1st battalion of the 33rd armored, engines hot and munitions firing. A continuous salvo of shells and missiles cut a swath across the columns of APCs, wrecking the unprotected flank of the Alliance assault. Dozens of APCs ignited under the overwhelming explosive damage, while the ensuing chaos effectively mission killed dozens more as APCs crashed and collided with one another. The lucky soldiers were slain mercifully by shrapnel, the unlucky ones burned when fuel cells ignited to rain a fiery shower upon the battlefield. In this complete pandemonium a majority of Sheridan tanks pushed through the graveyard of wrecked vehicles and twisted bodies, cutting the Alliance armored column in half and quickly turning to engage the exposed rear of the vanguard tanks.

The 2nd and 3rd battalions of the 33rd emerged next from the forest, the 2nd following the 1st through to the left flank of the Alliance convoy, turning the other direction to engage the remaining APCs while the 3rd ran straight down the right flank, sandwiching the disorganized Alliance vehicles between two walls of fire. The APCs of the 2nd and 3rd then disgorged their troops, anti-armor and anti-personnel combatants that took up positions to encircle the Alliance APCs. From behind a burning line of wreckages the core body of Alliance APCs took up fighting positions, guns blazing as they reciprocated in kind.

Meanwhile, the 1st battalion swept across the Alliance armored vanguard, putting salvo after salvo of shells into the weaker armored flanks and rear of the Enyo heavies. The Pallas reacted promptly, disengaging from the convoy formation as the Enyo bought them time by being better targets of opportunity. Swirling clouds of dust rose into the air as the Pallas turned to face their assailants, and the battle was joined between the two light tank forces.

* * *

_Alliance Armored Vanguard, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera_

_Sudden Death _made a hard left, barely clearing the flaming remains of _Wilful Murder_. While the driver wrestled to bring _Sudden Death _back under control, the gunner turned the turret as Major Lauren McCarter identified the offending Pallas.

"Pallas, right six eight degrees, seven two meters." McCarter gripped the scope, tracking the target.

"Target locked on." Her gunner replied.

"Kill it."

_Sudden Death_ shuddered, belching out a shell that pierced the frontal armor of the Pallas. The target slowed to a halt, and the hatch opened. Several Alliance soldiers scrambled out, though not before the ammo cache cooked off, tossing the bodies high into the air as a column of fire erupted from the open hatch.

McCarter grinned, sweeping her scope across the chaotic battleground to find her next target. Next to _Sudden Death_, _Spitfire_ unleashed her last missile, drawing a white trail to its target as the missile took out the treads on the Pallas. _Spitfire _followed up with a shell, placing it right under the enemy turret, pulping the tank commander.

Around the disabled Pallas came two of its pals, making the tight turns Pallas are well known for. Both turned their turret on _Spitfire_, and a second later _Spitfire_ had smoke venting from two gaping hole in its frontal armor. Despite having a clearly damaged firing mechanism, _Spitfire_ surged forward, and McCarter yelled into her radio. "Edward, report!"

Lieutenant Edward of _Spitfire_ didn't respond, and McCarter patted her driver on the shoulder. _Sudden Death_ turned slightly to follow _Spitfire _in her path, and a thump on her right signaled her loader had finished his task.

"Left three degrees, four two meters!" McCarter all but growled, calling out the Pallas that was angling the strike _Spitfire_ on her flank.

"Acquired!" The gunner called back.

"Fire!"

Another shudder, and the enemy Pallas found its turret torn away, though still continuing to move.

"Missile away!" McCarter yelled, and a second later the enemy Pallas went up in flames.

Turning her scope to range the third Pallas, McCarter had to choke down a cry. Its frontal armor was partially caved in, courtesy of the _Spitfire_ ramming into it at top speed. Still functional, the Pallas launched a missile at pointblank range, the armor piercing tip made short work of the Sheridan. The resulting detonation had evidently ignited _Spitfire_'s ammo magazine, setting off an explosion that embedded lethal shrapnel into the Pallas.

"Confirm kill?" The gunner asked.

"Confirm kill." McCarter replied coldly.

_Sudden Death _sent a shell into the third Pallas, easily piercing the wrapped armor and even exiting the other end. A plume of fire and smoke exploded from the corpse, and _Sudden Death _gunned her engine, hunting for the next prey in the close quarter tank melee.

* * *

_Southern Frontline, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera_

While the 1st, 2nd, and 3rd battalions of the 33rd engaged the Alliance 21st and 202nd, the 4th battalion of the 33rd armored branched off earlier and exited the forest closer to the Independent southern frontline. A majority of the Sheridan, accompanied by a small contingent of APCs, turned south to support the assault against the Alliance armored spearhead. The remaining tanks and APCs, plus four companies worth of infantry, tackled the same hillside that the Alliance forward elements had paid a heavy toll in men and equipment to claim the forward trenches. This time, however, the resistance was far more futile. Sheridan light tanks led the climb while APCs supplied suppressive fire from behind.

Caught between a rock and a hard place, the Alliance troops would have made an admirable, maybe even effective, last stand. Alliance issued HEAT grenades and satchel charges, common among forward and reconnaissance elements, would have inflicted a heavy toll upon the vehicles. The captured Independent heavy machine guns, in addition to the natural tactical advantage of holding the higher ground, would make an infantry assault equally costly on the 33rd as it had been for the Alliance.

Maybe it was the ingrained military loyalty, or maybe it was just the urge for a bloody retribution. Regardless the reason, the survivors of the 3rd battalion of the 142nd PDF and their reinforcements from the 58th reserved rose from their support trenches. Led in a charge by Captain Richman, three hundred Independent soldiers descended upon the Alliance, their mortar and sniper compatriots sowing chaos to prior to their arrival. It was a suicidal attack, facing against an enemy force that was at least five times their number, but in war there is always sacrifice, and these three hundred men would provide just enough distraction for the 4th battalion of the 33rd to climb up the hill with minimal harassment.

Lieutenant Joseph Powers ran alongside Corporal Zach Browne, who had exchanged his Mk 48 in favor of a more portable M16 assault rifle. The rest of the Easy 3rd platoon followed closely behind, a total of twenty three survivors that made up one of the most intact units left on the southern frontlines. The rest of the frontline survivors had been broken up into twenty odd men platoons, each tasked with overwhelming and holding the Independent-turned-Alliance trenches that housed captured heavy machine guns. The Easy 3rd platoon was given a target near the center of the frontline, with three heavy machine guns that were separated by four and five short stretches of trenches.

The downhill itself had been surprisingly bloodless, at least for the Easy 3rd. About halfway to their target the 3rd platoon split into three squads, each heading for their target trench. Powers, Browne, along with five others formed squad alpha, and their target was the center-most machine gun. With bayonets already fixed to their rifles and just about every soldier carrying at least two other combat knives on their persons, the three hundred was well equipped for the close quarter melee that they will force upon the Alliance.

Boots pounding solidly into the ground, Powers sprinted the last 50 meters, pulling ahead of his squad. The enemies were shooting, but by some grace the heavy machine gun was still facing the other direction, and Powers made it close enough to be within jumping range of the trench. With a flying leap Powers cleared the final meters, his knees soundly impacting the sternum of an unfortunate Alliance soldier, breaking ribs while sending the enemy collapsing against the trench wall. Powers continued to let his momentum carry him forward, plunging his bayonet deep into the enemy's chest. The remaining Alliance soldiers reacted swiftly, swerving to bring their weapons to bear, though not before Powers unsheathed a combat knife and buried it hilt-deep into a thigh followed by a harsh pull, leaving a gaping wound that gashed crimson blood.

The ferocity of the attack caused the enemies to pause, if only very briefly, while they came to terms with the almost primitive savagery. That pause, however, was long enough for the rest of squad alpha to catch up, gun blazing and bayonets flashing as they conducted a very coordinated execution of the remaining Alliance soldiers. The soldiers who had suffered a grievous leg wound at the hands of Powers found himself with bullet in the skull, as Powers had quickly drawn his sidearm to finish the kill.

With the trench now clear, Browne slung his rifle across his back, going for the heavy machine gun to target the adjacent trenches. Before the dust had even settled, several round lobes came hurling into the trench, and someone yelled "out!" Immediately, squad alpha vaulted out of the now death trap, timely escaping the shrapnel grenades that went off seconds later. As more Alliance bullets filled the air, squad alpha found themselves in a crossfire as enemy trenches on both sides opened fire. Two caught a hail of bullets to their chest, dying instantly.

"Browne, get on that machine gun now! Blast your right to pieces! The rest of you with me!" Powers didn't bother to stand up before moving, crawling rapidly on all fours as he built the momentum to transition into hunched-over sprint. His target was the trench to the immediate left of the captured trench, the ones who had thrown the grenades. Browne reacted quickly to the command, rolling back into the trench to finish repositioning the machine gun while slinging the belt ammo over his shoulder. Taking hold of the gun with both hands, Browne fired bursts of enfilade fire that shredded apart Alliance soldiers.

Instead of a leap, Powers dived into the target trench, shoulder ramming into the midsection of a soldier in the way. The collision started a dominos effect, sending half of the soldiers in the trench toppling backwards in an almost comical scene of flailing limbs and indignant outrage. Three more pairs of boots landed in the trench normal, M16 rifles chattering away on full auto while the returning fire came in bursts. Powers stabbed his tackled foe repeatedly, before leaping up and finding his Alliance targets already dead and two more members of his 3rd platoon bleeding profusely, one from the neck and the other from his stomach.

Grabbing one of the wounded comrades, Powers quickly returned to the trench where Browne was suppressing the enemies to the right. The second wounded Independent soldier was hauled onto his feet by the third combat capable member of squad alpha, and together they followed Powers back to a relatively safer trench. Immediately upon arrival, a flurry of activity broke out. Morphine shots, antibiotic and blood coagulant powders, and a mummifying amount of bandages later, the two wounded soldiers seemed to have stabilized, and Powers wiped a smear of blood onto his uniform before retrieving his M16 to lay down streams of suppressive fire.

* * *

_Valley Floor, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera_

Bullet pins rang loudly amidst a field of APCs. The smaller caliber rifle fire sang the sopranos, starting and stopping as infantry squads maneuvered to gain a clear line of fire. The vehicle-mounted machine guns supplied a constant baritone, filling the air with inexhaustible waves of lead that punished even a moment of inattention. The deceptively innocuous grenades bounced over covers and around corners, letting off tenor pops that drew equal part blood and cries. The unstoppable rockets smashed apart metal and flesh, providing resolute bass beats that marked the tempo of the battle.

The Alliance 202nd had withdrawn their APCs into a circular defensive wall, akin to the wagon trains that used to form into a circle during the Wild West era back on Earth-That-Was. The surviving soldiers were crawling among the flaming wreckages that lay outside of the APC circle, determined to maintain a buffer between their forced defensive positions and an Independent infantry incursion. In the southern portion of their circular fortification, a cluster of relatively undamaged APCs assembled in a spear formation, anti-armor personnel loading up to take part in a break out operation, to sally forth and punch a hole in the Independent encirclement. The rest of the 202nd was prepared to jump into the nearest friendly APC after the retreat route was established.

The order was given, and the column of APCs thundered past a temporary gap in their defensive circle formation. The gap was immediately closed, extra suppressive fire raised the noise by several decibels to prevent the Independents from exploiting this brief weakness. The vanguard APCs had only their pilots, brave souls who had volunteered for this likely suicidal role to clear a path with nothing but the law of conservation of linear momentum.

These particular APCs were tinkered with ahead of time, their engines modified to produce the maximum torque for highest engine power output by eliminating all safety cutoffs. The pilots were strapped in tight, everything except the two arms bound to the chair to keep the drivers mission-capable for as long as possible while crashing time and time again. Any illicit alcohol was given to these volunteers right before takeoff, a last sendoff that also doubled as a pain dampener and encouragement for reckless driving.

These pilots performed beyond admirably, and if the Alliance brass could get off their high chairs to acknowledge the lives that were saved by these sacrifices, the highest military honor should have been awarded to these heroes postmortem. Alas, some miracles cannot be worked, no matter how righteous the cause. Soon after the official decision reached the 202nd, there was a near mutinous sentiment running through the regiment. Treasonous words were muttered, and creative suggestions of where the military brass can place their heads were spoken brazenly. To keep the emotions from boiling over, the General of the 202nd offered an alternative memorabilia for the pilots who had given them lives to preserve the regiment, and cries of "just wreck'em!" would fill the air whenever the 202nd joined a battle.

Pushing apart the APC corpses to clear a driving lane had been easy. The Independent 33rd had yet to realize this impromptu escape operation, and the drivers found their APCs to have more than sufficient horsepower to bulldoze their metal obstacles aside. Next came the scattered squads of Independent infantry, some hiding behind scrapped vehicles, others relying on hastily dug earthworks. The regular rifle ammo pinned off the bullet-proof windows and armor of the vanguard APCs, while armor piercing bullets drawing spider cracks on the front windows while the occasional lead punctured the reinforced glass to dig holes in the Alliance pilots.

The APCs, however, proved to be unstoppable by mere bullets, and charged directly into clusters of Independent troops, sending them diving in all directions. Those in cover soon found themselves assaulted by the very defenses they had relied on, whether it be the smoking remains of a vehicle being toppled to crash down upon them, or the earthen walls serving as ramps that sent vanguard APCs flying to land in their midst. The unlucky ones would later be carried into the southern HQ first aid stations, heavy trauma all over their persons from having bounced off of a solidly built APC traveling at 100 kilometers per hour.

Even as the vanguard APCs rampaged over the infantry, the Independent APCs, formed in a line, began spraying their Alliance counterparts with larger caliber projectiles that scattered windows and shredded metal. More than a few vanguard drivers died a violent death under a brutal hail of bullets, though even in their death throes they would not take their foot off the accelerator, their APCs roaring until a missile or an object finally intercepted its path. Shoulder mounted rockets began flying, as the noise of conflict began to draw the attentions of nearby Independent squads. Soon, flaming corpses of former APCs graced the battlefield, their momentum carrying them forward until they erupted in defiance of their untimely demise.

The surviving vanguard vehicles pushed on, past the screen of dead allied vehicles to collide head on against those that dared to block their path. Those struck were unable to withstand the momentum, and so were forcibly pushed out of formation, opening holes in the line. In areas of stauncher resistance, the vanguard pilots elected to offer their ultimate sacrifice. After wedging their APCs into the highest concentration of enemies they can find, these drivers ignited their fuel cells to engulf the surrounding targets in a fiery grave. The last line of resistance thus scattered, the personnel-mounted Alliance APCs quickly unloaded their squads and fought to keep their path of retreat from closing.

Back in the 202nd circular stronghold, a flare screaming into the sky from the south signaled the successful conclusion of the breakout operation. With speed that only desperation mixed with a heaping dose of hope could lend, the 202nd infantry mounted the nearest APCs, and a chaotic fleet of vehicles roared through the open route, successfully disengaging from the devastating ambush to lick their wounds and fight another day.

* * *

_Alliance Armored Vanguard, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera_

The two light tank battalions pulled no punches while sledging each other into scrap metal. Burnt out husks of man and machine were scattered across the dusty valley floor, their passage into the afterlife marked by the sounds of shell against armor explosions. The initial contact had been brutal, dozens of tanks going up in flames on both sides. The subsequent maelstrom took even more vehicles out of commission. Neither side could afford to disengage, for neither side had the numbers for a fighting retreat, and a disorderly withdraw would simply be inviting wholesale slaughter.

The Alliance Pallas, having the upper hand in terms of technological specs, had been steadily whittling down the numerical advantage held by the Independent Sheridans. That did not alter the reality that the battle was still one of attrition, even though for every four Pallas lost, five Sheridans were mission-killed. The Alliance 21st simply did not start with enough numbers to win this fight, and that fact became ever clearer as more and more Alliance radio channels went silent.

"Pallas, right ten degrees, nine two meters!"

"Target acquired!"

"Fire!"

_Sudden Death_ lurched backwards, recoiling as it fired the final shell of the battle. The high explosive ammunition struck its target in the rear armor, and the resulting detonation took out their engine in a spectacular flash of orange and white. Two 4th battalion APCs immediately charged alongside, Independent soldiers muscling open the hatch and lobbing in several shrapnel grenades to finish off the crew. The hatch came slamming down a second before the grenades went off, and the screams could be heard even through the closed hatch.

It took the 1st battalion of the Independent 33rd several more minutes to confirm the complete destruction of their Alliance counterpart. When they finally did, the surviving tank crews let off a cheer of celebration that surely would have echoed all the way to the southern frontline, had they not been sitting in cramped metal boxes that trapped most of the sound inside.

* * *

_Southern Frontline, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera_

At the same time the 33rd let off their roar of triumph, Lieutenant Powers was in a world of hurt. His left side was burning, having been shot just moments earlier. The thumping of blood was deafening in his ears, and still he tried to line up his shot. Wounded or not, he was still stuck in a very vulnerable position with hostile fire coming from both sides. If Powers wanted to live past the next minute he had to fight on, and onward he fought.

Having finally placed the enemy's center of mass in his crosshairs, Powers pulled the trigger, and a short burst of bullets sent the target sprawling backwards to the ground. Letting off sigh, Powers finally allowed the gravity to take hold of him, sliding down to the trench floor as the effects of blood loss began to take hold. The world spun for a moment, and the vision of an apocalyptic future appeared before his eyes.

The Powers farm burned, along with every other farms running into Dawns Plateau. The flames grew demonic, reaching ever higher as support beams crackled and fell. A burst of ember erupted from the dying house, and a gust of wind carried them onward, beyond field of browned weeds and the dried out pond, all the way to the solitary tree where something green still grew. A single ember landed on a leaf, slowly chewing through the tender tissue to leave a smoldering wound. The wound spreads, and small flames of fire began licking at the surrounding branches. Before long, the tree was engulfed by an all-consuming flame, the dark ashes of the burnt carbon dripping to the ground like molasses.

A light entered into view, a small bobbling dot that grew larger and larger. It came from beyond the flames, its piercing rays not losing any intensity as it penetrated the raging fire. The land shook, and a zephyr lightly brushed the weeds while spreading the fire beyond just the tree. The flame took to the dried fuel with vigor, fanning out faster than it had overtaken the tree. Still the light came, now fighting through multiple walls of a reinvigorated fire. The scene was almost hypnotic, and Powers felt magnetically drawn to the sight.

Out of this oddly peaceful revere Powers suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder, rocking him. Looking down, he was no longer standing in the field of dying weeds. Instead, his legs were folded under him, stained with dirt and blood. Looking up, the horizon was deep red, the glowing orb of the sun almost completely set behind the mountain. Browne was calling and shaking him on the shoulder, trying to get a coherent response from the Lt. Powers opened his mouth, but found the air painfully dry, and he closed it without a sound.

With a loud honk an APC came to a sliding stop next to his trench. Army corpsmen jumped out, a most welcomed sight, and Powers tried to make a comment. Again he opened his mouth, and again it didn't work. The two other wounded members of the Easy 3rd platoon were being moved into the APC while a corpsman came straight to his side, ripping open his uniform to access the bullet wound. The work was quick, professional, and a shot of morphine later, Powers lolled back and drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

All across the southern front trenches, the 4th battalion of the 33rd moped up the operation, handling the prison transports to the southern HQ and lending APCs to the corpsmen from the 3rd battalion of the 142nd. The fallen soldiers were carried off to the tree line, a mass burial that separated the Alliance bodies from the Independents. The soldiers of the 4th battalions took over manning the trenches, allowing the remaining 3rd and 58th troops to return to the HQ for some much needed rest.

There were not many survivors from the three hundred brave that charged down the hill. They had suffered a ninety percent casualty rate, many platoons were wiped out down to the last man. Those lives, however, bought the 4th more than enough time to climb the hill without facing heavy fire, and there came a sudden shift in the atmosphere when the APCs screeched to a stop next to the trenches, rifle squads firing even as the back ramps was still lowering. It does bear mention that most platoons were successful in their capture of their objective trenches, and even those few that did not, the soldiers all managed make it into their target trenches, wrestling the Alliance troops to the ground before finally expiring. Captain Richman was among the first to die, a bullet catching him in the throat just as he was about to drop into the trench, momentum carried his dying body onto a wide-eyed Alliance soldier, knocking him over.

* * *

_Academy Codex, Entry 6, Formation of the Alliance_

The political entity known as Global Exodus Alliance, which was given almost unlimited political power by a joint agreement between the first world countries and their allies on the Earth-That-Was, was not formally a government. The GEA ruled over no people or land, it was merely given authority by the signees of the agreement on all matters related to the Exodus, which snowballed to include absolute economical and military control over the relevant resources of the affiliated nations. The individual governments still maintained control over their own civilian and political policies, though that line blurred when the loading of the Arks began.

Once the Exodus transitioned to the spaceflight stage, there was effectively no government left active. As mentioned previously, only a small maintenance crew remained awake on each Ark. The only resemblance of a ruling body was aboard _Prometheus_, where several GEA technical officials rotated in and out of cryogenic sleep. These officials would read over the reports submitted by all the Arks in the fleet, double checking the analysis and conclusions reached by the Ark's crew, to ensure a mistake was caught on time. These officials also consulted on any problems that arose, making the final call on the urgency of a machine failure, along with other such technologically complex maintenance tasks.

When the fleet neared the White Sun system, more high level executives began waking, to plan for the terraforming efforts and other colonization details. Representatives from the GEA affiliated governments vied for first picks of colonization locations post terraformation. CEOs from corporations demanded unlimited mineral rights to the untapped caches of natural resources detected by the scanners from Arks. Manufacturing moguls fought for complete manufacturing rights to components vital to the colonization efforts.

Back on Earth-That-Was, these were the exact issues that GEA had been given right to handle. Falling back on habit, the GEA leadership began mediating these disputes, elevating their status to that above the affiliated governments in this new solar system. The business leaders did not care who were in control, and was only happy to work with such a pro-business governmental organization. The affiliated nation leaders, however, soon realized their diminished state, and a power struggle began aboard _Prometheus_ as alliances formed between former nations to gain the right of being the top executor.

All in all, this power struggle was completely futile. GEA had complete control of the military, and so any political maneuvers by nation leaders really meant nothing in the grander scheme of things. However, the GEA leadership was nothing if not pragmatic, and they realized this power struggle could blow up into war decades down the line, and so private discussions began between the heads of GEA and the various nation leaders. Out of self-interest and a keen sense of self-preservation, the nations went into these discussions willingly, offering concessions to the GEA if the GEA would provide military support for their reign.

Out of these discussions, the leaders of the former nations of United States and People's Republic of China offered the most appealing, which some would call the most self-degrading, deal to the GEA. They called for the creation of an entirely new political entity, built from the political talents of the three leaderships, thus effectively giving GEA an equal seat at the table, while still maintaining control over the present and future military of this new political entity. In return, the US and PRC would take over the economics and other colonization-related decision making. Thus decided, the Alliance was born, a political and military powerhouse that no other alliance of nations could match. Over the course of decades after colonization took place, all other political contender were either peacefully or forcibly subjugated to fall in line with Alliance policies. To this day, the Alliance maintains its position as the rightful governing body for all colonies, regardless of planetary locations.


End file.
